University  of  California  •  Berkeley 


CHARLEMONT 


OR 


THE  PRIDE  OF  THE  VILLAGE 


A  TALE  OF  KENTUCKY 


BY  W.  GILMORE  SIMMS,  ESQ. 

AUTHOR  OF  "THE   PARTISAN" — "  MELLICHAMPE" — "  KATHARINE  WALTON" — 
"THE  FORAYERS" — "THE  SCOUT" — "WOODCRAFT" — "BEAUCHAMPE,"  ETC. 


"  Nor  will  I  be  secure, 
In  any  confidence  of  mine  own  strength, 
For  such  security  is  oft  the  mother 
Of  negligence,  and  that,  the  occasion 
Of  unremedy'd  ruin."  Alicrocosmus — THO.  NABBES. 


REDFIELD 

34    BEEKMAN    STREET,    NEW    YORK 
1856 


ADVERTISEMENT 


THE  domestic  legend  which  follows,  is  founded  upon  ac 
tual  events  of  comparatively  recent  occurrence  in  the  state 
of  Kentucky.  However  strange  the  facts  may  appear  in 
the  sequel — however  in  conflict  with  what  are  usually  sup 
posed  to  be  the  sensibilities  and  characteristics  of  woman 
— they  are  yet  unquestionably  true ;  most  of  them  having 
been  conclusively  established,  by  the  best  testimony,  before 
a  court  of  justice.  Very  terrible,  indeed,  was  the  tragedy 
to  which  they  conducted — one  that  startled  the  whole 
country  when  it  took  place,  and  the  mournful  interest  of 
which  wrll  long  be  remembered.  More  on  this  subject 
need  not  be  mentioned  here.  The  narrative,  it  is  hoped, 
will  satisfy  all  the  curiosity  of  the  reader.  It  has  been 
very  carefully  prepared  from  and  according  to  the  evidence  ; 
the  art  of  the  romancer  being  held  in  close  subjection  to 
the  historical  authorities.  I  have  furnished  only  the  neces 
sary  details  which  would  fill  such  blanks  in  the  story  as 
are  of  domestic  character ;  taking  care  that  these  should 
accord,  in  all  cases,  with  the  despotic  facts.  In  respect  to 
these,  I  have  seldom  appealed  to  invention.  It  is  in  the 
delineation  and  development  of  character,  only,  that  I  have 
made  free  to  furnish  scenes,  such  as  appeared  to  me  calcu 
lated  to  perfect  the  portraits,  and  the  better  to  reconcile 


8  •  ADVERTISEMENT. 

the  reader  to  real  occurrences,  which,  in  their  original  na 
kedness,  however  unquestionably  true,  might  incur  the  risk 
of  being  thought  improbabilities. 

The  reflections  which  will  be  most  likely  to  arise  from 
the  perusal  of  such  a  history,  lead  us  to  a  consideration  of 
the  social  characteristics  of  the  time  and  region,  and  to  a 
consideration  of  the  facility  with  which  access  to  society 
is  afforded  by  the  manners  and  habits  of  our  forest  popula 
tion.  It  is  in  all  newly-settled  countries,  as  among  the^ 
rustic  population  of  most  nations,  that  the  absence  of  the 
compensative  resources  of  wealth  leads  to  a  singular  and 
unreserved  freedom  among  the  people.  In  this  way,  society 
endeavors  to  find  equivalents  for  those  means  of  enjoyment 
which  a  wealthy  people  may  procure  from  travel,  from 
luxury,  from  the  arts,  and  the  thousand  comforts  of  a  well- 
provided  homestead.  The  population  of  a  frontier  country, 
lacking  such  resources,  scattered  over  a  large  territory, 
and  meeting  infrequently,  feel  the  lack  of  social  intercourse  ; 
and  this  lack  tends  to  break  down  most  of  th^  barriers 
which  a  strict  convention  usually  establishes  for  the  pro 
tection,  not  only  of  sex  and  caste,  but  of  its  own  tastes  and 
prejudices.  Lacking  the  resources  of  superior  wealth,  pop 
ulation,  and  civilization,  the  frontier  people  are  naturally 
required  to  throw  the  doors  open  as  widely  as  possible,  in 
order  to  obtain  that  intercourse  with  their  fellows  which  is, 
perhaps,  the  first  great  craving  of  humanity.  As  a  matter 
of  necessity,  there  is  little  discrimination  exercised  in  the 
admission  of  their  guests.  A  specious  outside,  agreeable 
manners,  cleverness  and  good  humor,  will  soon  make  their 
way  into  confidence,  without  requiring  other  guaranties  for 
the  moral  of  the  stranger.  The  people  are  naturally  frank 
and  hospitable ;  for  the  simple  reason  that  these  qualities 


ADVERTISEMENT.  9 

of  character  are  essential  for  procuring  them  that  inter 
course  which  they  crave.  The  habits  are  accessible,  the 
restraints  few,  the  sympathies  are  genial,  active,  easily 
aroused,  and  very  confiding.  It  follows,  naturally,  that 
they  are  frequently  wronged  and  outraged,  and  just  as  nat 
urally  that  their  resentments  are  keen,  eager,  and  vindic 
tive.  The  self-esteem,  if  not  watchful,  is  revengeful ;  and 
society  sanctions  promptly  the  fierce  redress — that  wild 
justice  of  revenge — which  punishes  without  appeal  to  law, 
with  its  own  right  hand,  the  treacherous  guest  who  has 
abused  the  unsuspecting  confidence  which  welcomed  him 
to  a  seat  upon  the  sacred  hearth.  In  this  brief  portrait 
of  the  morale  of  society,  upon  our  frontiers,  you  will  find 
the  materiel  from  which  this  story  has  been  drawn,  and  its 
justification,  as  a  correct  delineation  of  border  life  in  one 
of  its  more  settled  phases  in  the  new  states.  The  social 
description  of  Charlemont  exhibits,  perhaps,  a  third  ad 
vance  in  our  forest  civilization,  from  the  original  settle 
ment. 

It  is  not  less  the  characteristic  of  these  regions  to  exhibit 
the  passions  and  the  talents  of  the  people  in  equal  and 
wonderful  saliency.  We  are  accordingly  struck  with  two 
classes  of  social  facts,  which  do  not  often  arrest  the  atten 
tion  in  old  communities.  We  see,  for  example,  the  most 
singular  combination  of  simplicity  and  sagacity  in  the  same 
person ;  simplicity  in  conventional  respects,  and  sagacity 
in  all  that  affects  the  absolute  and  real  in  life,  nature  and 
the  human  sensibilities.  The  rude  man,  easily  imposed 
upon,  in  his  faith,  fierce  as  an  outlaw  in  his  conflicts  with 
men,  will  be  yet  exquisitely  alive  to  the  nicest  consciousness 
of  woman ;  will  as  delicately  appreciate  her  instincts  and 
sensibilities,  as  if  love  and  poetry  had  been  his  only  tutors 


10  ADVERTISEMENT. 

from  the  first,  and  had  mainly  addressed  their  labors  to 
this  one  object  of  the  higher  heart,  education ;  and  in  due 
degree  with  the  tenderness  with  which  he  will  regard  the 
sex,  will  be  the  vindictive  ferocity  with  which — even 
though  no  kinsman  —  he  will  pursue  the  offender  who  has 
dared  to  outrage  them  in  the  case  of  any  individual.  In 
due  degree  as  his  faith  is  easy  will  his  revenges  be  extreme. 
In  due  degree  as  he  is  slow  to  suspect  the  wrong-doer,  will 
be  the  tenacity  of  his  pursuit  when  the  offender  requires 
punishment.  He  seems  to  throw  wide  his  heart  and  habita 
tion,  but  you  must  beware  how  you  trespass  upon  the  secu 
rities  of  either.  ii;  •.**;.; 

The  other  is  a  mental  characteristic  which  leads  to  fre 
quent  surprises  among  strangers  from  the  distant  cities. 
It  consists  in  the  wonderful  inequality  between  his  mental 
and  social  development.  The  same  person  who  will  be  re 
garded  as  a  boor  in  good  society,  will  yet  exhibit  a  rapidity 
and  profundity  of  thought  and  intelligence — a  depth  and 
soundness  of  judgment — an  acuteness  in  discrimination  — 
a  logical  accuracy,  and  critical  analysis,  such  as  mere 
good  society  rarely  shows,  and  such  as  books  almost  as 
rarely  teach.  There  will  be  a  deficiency  of  refinement, 
taste,  art — all  that  the  polished  world  values  so  highly — 
and  which  it  seems  to  cherish  and  encourage  to  the  partial 
repudiation  of  the  more  essential  properties  of  intellect. 
However  surprising  this  characteristic  may  appear,  it  may 
yet  be  easily  accounted  for  by  the  very  simplicity  of  a 
training  which  results  in  great  directness  and  force  of  char 
acter —  a  frank  heartiness  of  aim  and  object — a  truthful 
ness  of  object  which  suffers  the  thoughts  to  turn  neither  to 
the  right  hand  nor  to  the  left,  but  to  press  forward  deci 
sively  to  the  one  object — a  determined  will,  and  a  restless 


ADVERTISEMENT.  11 

• 

instinct — which,  conscious  of  the  deficiencies  of  wealth 
and  position,  is  yet  perpetually  seeking  to  supply  them 
from  the  resources  within  its  reach.  These  characteristics 
will  be  found  illustrated  in  the  present  legend,  an  object 
which  it  somewhat  contemplates,  apart  from  the  mere  story 
with  which  they  are  interwoven. 

A  -few  words  more  in  respect  to  our  heroine,  Margaret 
Cooper.  It  is  our  hope  and  belief,  that  she  will  be  found 
a  real  character  by  most  of  our  readers.  She  is  drawn 
from  the  life,  and  with  a  severe  regard  to  the  absolute  fea 
tures  of  the  original.  In  these  days  of  u  strong-minded 
women,"  even  more  certainly  than  when  the  portrait  was 
first  taken,  the  identity  of  the  sketch  with  its  original  will 
be  sure  of  recognition.  Her  character  and  career  will 
illustrate  most  of  the  mistakes  which  are  made  by  that  am 
bitious  class,  among  the  gentler  sex,  who  are  now  seeking 
so  earnestly  to  pass  out  from  that  province  of  humiliation 
to  which  the  sex  has  been  circumscribed  from  the  first  mo 
ment  of  recorded  history.  What  she  will  gain  by  the 
motion,  if  successful,  might  very  well  be  left  to  time,  were 
it  not  that  the  proposed  change  in  her  condition  threatens 
fatally  some  of  her  own  and  the  best  securities  of  humanity. 
We  may  admit,  and  cheerfully  do  so,  that  she  might,  with 
propriety,  be  allowed  some  additional  legal  privileges  of  a 
domestic  sort.  But  the  great  object  of  attainment,  which  is 
the  more  serious  need  of  the  sex — her  own  more  full  de 
velopment  as  a  responsible  being — seems  mainly  to  depend 
upon  herself,  and  upon  self-education.  The  great  first 
duty  of  woman  is  in  her  becoming  the  mother  of  men  ;  and 
this  duty  implies  her  proper  capacity  for  the  education  and 
training  of  the  young.  To  fit  her  properly  for  this  duty, 
her  education  should  become  more  elevated,  and  more 


12  ADVERTISEMENT. 

severe  in  degree  with  its  elevation.  But  the  argument  is 
one  of  too  grave,  too  intricate,  and  excursive  a  character, 
to  be  attempted  here.  It  belongs  to  a  very  different  con 
nection.  It  is  enough,  in  this  place,  to  say  that  Margaret 
Cooper  possesses  just  the  sort  of  endowment  to  make  a 
woman  anxious  to  pass  the  guardian  boundaries  which 
hedge  in  her  sex  —  her  danger  corresponds  with  her  desires. 
Her  securities,  with  such  endowments,  and  such  a  nature, 
can  only  be  found  in  a  strict  and  appropriate  education, 
such  as  woman  seldom  receives  anywhere,  and  less,  per 
haps,  in  this  country  than  in  any  other.  To  train  fully  the 
feminine  mind,  without  in  any  degree  impairing  her  sus 
ceptibilities  and  sensibilities,  seems  at  once  the  necessity 
and  the  difficulty  of  the  subject.  Her  very  influence  over 
man  lies  in  her  sensibilities.  It  will  be  to  her  a  perilous 
fall  from  pride  of  place,  and  power,  when,  goaded  by  an 
insane  ambition,  in  the  extreme  development  of  her  mere 
intellect,  she  shall  forfeit  a  single  one  of  these  securities 
of  her  sex. 


CHABLEMONT. 


CHAPTER*!. 

THE   SCENE. 

THE  stormy  and  rugged  winds  of  March  were  overblown 
— the  first  fresh  smiling  days  of  April  had  come  at  last — 
the  days  of  sunshine  and  shower,  of  fitful  breezes,  the  breath 
of  blossoms,  and  the  newly-awakened  song  of  birds.  Spring 
was  there  in  all  the  green  and  glory  of  her  youth,  and  the 
bosom  of  Kentucky  heaved  with  the  prolific  burden  of  the 
season.  She  had  come,  and  her  messengers  were  every 
where,  and  everywhere  busy.  The  birds  bore  her  gladsome 
tidings  to 

"  Alley  green, 

Dingle  or  bushy  dell  of  each  wild  wood, 
And  every  bosky  bourn  from  side  to  side — " 

nor  were  the  lately-trodden  and  seared  grasses  of  the  for 
ests  left  unnoted ;  and  the  humbled  flower  of  the  wayside 
sprang  up  at  her  summons.  Like  some  loyal  and  devoted 
people,  gathered  to  hail  the  approach  of  a  long-exiled  and 
well-beloved  sovereign,  they  crowded  upon  the  path  over 
which  she  came,  and  yielded  themselves  with  gladness  at 
her  feet.  The  mingled  songs  and  sounds  of  their  rejoicing 
might  be  heard,  and  far-off  murmurs  of  gratulation,  rising 
from  the  distant  hollows,  or  coming  faintly  over  the  hill- 


14  CHAELEMONT. 

tops,  in  accents  not  the  less  pleasing  because  they  were  the 
less  distinct.  That  lovely  presence  which  makes  every 
land  blossom,  and  every  living  thing  rejoice,  met,  in  the 
happy  region  in  which  we  meet  her  now,  a  double  tribute 
of  honor  and  rejoicing. 

The  "  dark  and  bloody  ground,"  by  which  mournful  epi 
thets  Kentucky  was  originally  known  to  the  Anglo-American, 
was  dark  and  bloody  no  longer.  The  savage  had  disap 
peared  from  its  green  forests  for  ever,  and  no  longer  pro 
faned  with  slaughter,  and  his  unholy  whoop  of  death,  its  broad 
and  beautiful  abodes.  A  newer  race  had  succeeded ;  and 
the  wilderness,  fulfilling  the  better  destinies  of  earth,  had 
begun  to  blossom  like  the  rose.  Conquest  had  fenced  in  its 
sterile  borders  with  a  wall  of  fearless  men,  and  peace  slept 
everywhere  in  security  among  its  green  recesses.  Stirring 
industry — the  perpetual  conqueror — made  the  woods  re 
sound  with  the  echoes  of  his  biting  axe  and  ringing  hammer. 
Smiling  villages  rose  in  cheerful  white,  in  place  of  the 
crumbling  and  smoky  cabins  of  the  hunter.  High  and  be 
coming  purposes  of  social  life  and  thoughtful  enterprise 
superseded  that  eating  and  painful  decay,  which  has  termi 
nated  in  the  annihilation  of  the  red  man  ;  and  which,  among 
every  people,  must  always  result  from  their  refusal  to  ex 
ercise,  according  to  the  decree  of  experience,  no  less  than 
Providence,  their  limbs  and  sinews  in  tasks  of  well-directed 
and  continual  labor. 

A  great  nation  urging  on  a  sleepless  war  against  sloth 
and  feebleness,  is  one  of  the  noblest  of  human  spectacles. 
This  warfare  was  rapidly  and  hourly  changing  the  monot 
ony  and  dreary  aspects  of  rock  and  forest.  Under  the . 
creative  hands  of  art,  temples  of  magnificence  rose  where 
the  pines  had  fallen.  Long  and  lovely  vistas  were  opened 
through  the  dark  and  hitherto  impervious  thickets.  The 
city  sprang  up  beside  the  river,  while  hamlets,  filled  with 
active  hope  and  cheerful  industry,  crowded  upon  the  ver 
dant  hill-side,  and  clustered  among  innumerable  valleys. 


THE   SCENE.  15 

Grace  began  to  seek  out  the  homes  of  toil,  and  taste  sup 
plied  their  decorations.  A  purer  form  of  religion. hallowed 
the  forest-homes  of  the  red-man,  while  expelling  for  ever 
the  rude  divinities  of  his  worship ;  and  throughout  the 
land,  an  advent  of  moral  loveliness  seemed  approaching, 
not  less  grateful  to  the  affections  and  the  mind,  than  was 
the  beauty  of  the  infant  April,  to  the  eye  and  the  heart  of 
the  wanderer. 

But  something  was  still  wanting  to  complete  the  harmo 
nies  of  nature,  in  the  scene  upon  which  we  are  about  to 
enter.  Though  the  savage  had  for  ever  departed  from  its 
limits,  the  blessings  of  a  perfect  civilization  were  not  yet 
secured  to  the  new  and  flourishing  regions  of  Kentucky. 
Its  morals  were  still  in  that  fermenting  condition  which  in 
variably  distinguishes  the  settlement  of  every  new  country 
by  a  various  and  foreign  people.  At  the  distant  period  of 
which  we  write,  the  population  of  Kentucky  had  not  yet 
become  sufficiently  stationary  to  have  made  their  domestic 
gods  secure,  or  to  have  fixed  the  proper  lines  and  limits 
regulating  social  intercourse  and  attaching  precise  stand 
ards  to  human  conduct.  The  habits  and  passions  of  the 
first  settlers — those  fearless  pioneers  who  had  struggled 
foot  to  foot  with  the  Indian,  and  lived  in  a  kindred  state 
of  barbarity  with  him,  had  not  yet  ceased  to  have  influence 
over  the  numerous  race  which  followed  them.  That  moral 
amalgam  which  we  call  society,  and  which  recognises  a 
mutual  and  perfectly  equal  condition  of  dependence,  and  a 
common  necessity,  as  the  great  cementing  principles  of  the 
human  family,  had  not  yet  taken  place  ;  and  it  was  still  too 
much  the  custom,  in  that  otherwise  lovely  region,  for  the 
wild  man  to  revenge  his  own  wrong,  and  the  strong  man 
to  commit  a  greater  with  impunity.  The  repose  of  social 
order  was  not  yet  secured  to  the  great  mass,  covering  with 
its  wing,  as  with  a  sky  that  never  knew  a  cloud,  the  sweet 
homes  and  secure  possessions  of  the  unwarlike.  The  fierce 
robber  sometimes  smote  the  peaceful  traveller  upon  the 


16  CHARLEMOXT. 

highway,  and  the  wily  assassin  of  reputation,  within  the 
limits  of  the  city  barrier,  not  ^infrequently  plucked  the 
sweetest  rose  that  ever  adorned  the  virgin  bosom  of  inno 
cence,  and  triumphed,  without  censure,  in  the  unhallowed 
spoliation. 

But  sometimes  there  came  an  avenger; — and  the  high 
way  robber  fell  before  the  unexpected  patriot ;  and  the  vir 
gin  was  avenged  by  the  yet  beardless  hero,  for  the  wrong 
of  her  cruel  seducer.  The  story  which  we  have  to  tell,  is 
of  times  and  of  actions  such  as  these.  It  is  a  melancholy 
narrative — the  more  melancholy,  as  it  is  most  certainly 
true.  It  will  not  be  told  in  vain,  if  the  crime  which  it 
describes  in  proper  colors,  and  the  vengeance  by  which  it 
was  followed,  and  which  it  equally  records,  shall  secure  the 
innocent  from  harm,  and  discourage  the  incipient  wrong 
doer  from  his  base  designs. 


THE   TRAVELLERS.  17 


CHAPTER  II. 

THE   TRAVELLERS. 

LET  the  traveller  stand  with  us  on  the  top  of  this  rugged 
eminence,  and  look  down  upon  the  scene  below.  Around 
us,  the  hills  gather  in  groups  on  every  side,  a  family  clus 
ter,  each  of  which  wears  the  same  general  likeness  to  that 
on  which  we  stand,  yet  there  is  no  monotony  in  their  as 
pect.  The  axe  has  not  yet  deprived  them  of  a  single  tree, 
and  they  rise  up,  covered  with  the  honored  growth  of  a 
thousand  summers.  But  they  seem  not  half  so  venerable. 
They  wear,  in  this  invigorating  season,  all  the  green,  fresh 
features  of  youth  and  spring.  The  leaves  cover  the  rugged 
limbs  which  sustain  them,  with  so  much  ease  and  grace,  as 
if  for  the  first  time  they  were  so  green  and  glossy,  and  as 
if  the  impression  should  be  made  more  certain  and  com 
plete,  the  gusty  wind  of  March  has  scattered  abroad  and 
borne  afar,  all  the  yellow  garments  of  the  vanished  winter. 
The  wild  flowers  begin  to  flaunt  their  blue  and  crimson  dra 
peries  about  us,  as  if  conscious  that  they  are  borne  upon  the 
bosom  of  undecaying  beauty ;  and  the  spot  so  marked  and 
hallowed  by  each  charming  variety  of  bud  and  blossom, 
would  seem  to  have  been  a  selected  dwelling  for  the  queenly 
Spring  herself. 

Man,  mindful  of  those  tastes  and  sensibilities  which  in 
great  part  constitute  his  claim  to  superiority  over  the  brute, 
has  not  been  indifferent  to  the  beauties  of  the  place.  In 
the  winding  hollows  of  these  hills,  beginning  at  our  feet, 
you  see  the  first  signs  of  as  lovely  a  little  hamlet  as  ever 


18  CHARLEMONT. 

promised  peace  to  the  weary  and  the  discontent.  This  is 
the  village  of  Charlemont. 

A  dozen  snug  and  smiling  cottages  seem  to  have  been 
dropped  in  this  natural  cup,  as  if  by  a  spell  of  magic.  They 
appear,  each  of  them,  to  fill  a  fitted  place — not  equally 
distant  from,  but  equally  near  each  other.  Though  distin 
guished,  each  by  an  individual  feature,  there  is  yet  no  great 
dissimilarity  among  them.  All  are  small,  and  none  of  them 
distinguished  by  architectural  pretension.  They  are  now 
quite  as  flourishing  as  when  first  built,  and  their  number 
has  had  no  increase  since  the  village  was  first  settled. 
Speculation  has  not  made  it  populous  and  prosperous,  by 
destroying  its  repose,  stifling  its  charities,  and  abridging 
the  sedate  habits  and  comforts  of  its  people.  The  houses, 
though  constructed  after  the  fashion  of  the  country,  of  heavy 
and  ill-squared  logs,  roughly  hewn,  and  hastily  thrown  to 
gether,  perhaps  by  unpractised  hands,  are  yet  made  cheer 
ful  by  that  tidy  industry  which  is  always  sure  to  make  them 
comfortable  also.  Trim  hedges  that  run  beside  slender 
white  palings,  surround  and  separate  them  from  each  other. 
Sometimes,  as  you  see,  festoons  of  graceful  flowers,  and 
waving  blossoms,  distinguish  one  dwelling  from  the  rest, 
declaring  its  possession  of  some  fair  tenant,  whose  hand 
and  fancy  have  kept  equal  progress  with  habitual  industry  ; 
at  the  same  time,  some  of  them  appear  entirely  without  the 
little  garden  of  flowers  and  vegetables,  which  glimmers  and 
glitters  in  the  rear  or  front  of  the  greater  number. 

Such  was  Charlemont,  at  the  date  of  our  narrative.  But 
the  traveller  would  vainly  look,  now,  to  find  the  place  as 
we  describe  it.  The  garden  is  no  longer  green  with  fruits 
and  flowers  —  the  festoons  no  longer  grace  the  lowly  por 
tals —  the  white  palings  are  down  and  blackening  in  the 
gloomy  mould — the  roofs  have  fallen,  and  silence  dwells 
lonely  among  the  ruins,  —  the  only  inhabitant  of  the  place. 
It  has  no  longer  a  human  occupant. 

"  Something  ails  it  now  —  the  spot  is  cursed." 


THE   TRAVELLERS.  19 

Why  this  fate  has  fallen  upon  so  sweet  an  abiding  place — 
why  the  villagers  should  have  deserted  a  spot,  so  quiet  and 
so  beautiful  —  it  does  not  fall  within  our  present  purpose  to 
inquire.  It  was  most  probably  abandoned — not  because  of 
the  unfruitfulnes*s  of  the  soil,  or  the  unhealthiness  of  the 
climate  —  for  but  few  places  on  the  bosom  of  the  earth,  may 
be  found  either  more  fertile,  more  beautiful,  or  more  health 
ful — but  in  compliance  with  that  feverish  restlessness  of 
mood — that  sleepless  discontent  of  temper,  which,  perhaps, 
more  than  any  other  quality,  is  the  moral  failing  in  the 
character  of  the  Anglo-American.  The  roving  desires  of 
his  ancestor,  which  brought  him  across  the  waters,  have 
been  transmitted  without  diminution — nay,  with  large  in 
crease —  to  the  son.  The  creatures  of  a  new  condition  of 
things,  and  new  necessities,  our  people  will  follow  out  their 
destiny.  The  restless  energies  which  distinguish  them, 
are,  perhaps,  the  contemplated  characteristics  which  Prov 
idence  has  assigned  them,  in  order  that  they  may  the 
more  effectually  and  soon,  bring  into  the  use  and  occupation 
of  a  yet  mightier  people,  the  wilderness  of  that  new  world 
in  which  their  fortunes  have  been  cast.  Generation  is  but 
the  pioneer  of  generation,  and  the  children  of  millions, 
more  gigantic  and  powerful  than  ourselves,  shall  yet  smile 
to  behold,  how  feeble  was  the  stroke  made  by  our  axe  upon 
the  towering  trees  of  their  inheritance. 

It  was  probably  because  of  this  characteristic  of  our  peo 
ple,  that  Charlemont  came  in  time  to  be  deserted.  The 
inhabitants  were  one  day  surprised  with  tidings  of  more 
attractive  regions  in  yet  deeper  forests,  and  grew  dissatisfied 
with  their  beautiful  and  secluded  valley.  Such  is  the  ready 
access  to  the  American  mind,  in  its  excitable  state,  of 
novelty  and  sudden  impulse,  that  there  needs  but  few  sug 
gestions  to  persuade  the  forester  to  draw  stakes,  and  re 
move  his  tents,  where  the  signs  seem  to  be  more  numerous 
of  sweeter  waters  and  more  prolific  fields.  For  a  time, 
change  has  the  power  which  nature  does  not  often  exer- 


20  CHARLEMOKT. 

else  ;  and  under  its  freshmess,  the  waters  do  seem  sweeter, 
and  the  stores  of  the  wilderness,  the  wild-honey  and  the 
locust,  do  seem  more  abundant  to  the  lip  and  eye. 

Where  our  cottagers  went,  and  under  what  delusion,  are 
utterly  unknown  to  us  ;  nor  is  it  important*to  our  narrative 
that  we  should  inquire.  Our  knowledge  of  them  is  only 
desirable,  while  they  were  in  the  flourishing  condition  in 
which  they  have  been  seen.  It  is  our  trust  that  the  nov 
elty  which  seduced  them  from  their  homes,  did  not  fail 
them  in  its  promises — that  they  may  never  have  found,  in 
all  their  wanderings,  a  less  lovely  abiding-place,  than  that 
which  they  abandoned.  But  change  has  its  bitter,  as  well 
as  its  sweet,  and  the  fear  is  strong  that  the  cottagers  of 
Charlemont,  in  the  weary  hours,  when  life's  winter  is  ap 
proaching,  will  still  and  vainly  sigh  after  the  once-despised 
enjoyments  of  their  deserted  hamlet. 

It  was  toward  the  close  of  one  of  those  bright,  tearful 
days  in  April,  of  which  we  have  briefly  spoken,  when  a 
couple  of  travellers  on  horseback,  ascended  the  last  hill 
looking  down  upon  Charlemont.  One  of  these  travellers 
had  passed  the  middle  period  of  life ;  the  other  was,  per 
haps,  just  about  to  enter  upon  its  heavy  responsibilities, 
and  more  active  duties.  The  first  wore  the  countenance  of 
one  who  had  borne  many  sorrows,  and  borne  them  with 
that  resignation,  which,  while  it  proves  the  wisdom  of  the 
sufferer,  is  at  the  same  time,  calculated  to  increase  his 
benevolence.  The  expression  of  his  eye,  was  full  of  kind 
ness  and  benignity,  while  that  of  his  mouth,  with  equal 
force,  was  indicative  of  a  melancholy,  as  constant  as  it  was 
gentle  and  unobtrusive.  A  feeble  smile  played  over  his 
lips  while  he  spoke,  that  increased  the  sadness  which  it 
softened  ;  as  the  faint  glimmer  of  the  evening  sunlight,  upon 
the  yellow  leaves  of  autumn,  heightens  the  solemn  tones  in 
the  rich  coloring  of  the  still  decaying  forest. 

The  face  of  his  companion,  in'  many  of  its  features,  was 
in  direct  contrast  with  his  own.  It  was  well  formed,  and, 


THE   TRAVELLERS.  21 

to  the  casual  glance,  seemed  no  less  handsome  than  intel 
lectual.  There  was  much  in  it  to  win  the  regard  of  the 
young  and  superficial.  An  eye  that  sparkled  with  fire,  a 
mouth  that  glowed  with  animation — cheeks  warmly  colored, 
and  a  contour  full  of  vivacity,  seemed  to  denote  properties 
of  mind  and  heart  equally  valuable  and  attractive.  Still, 
a  keen  observer  would  have  found  something  sinister,  in 
the  upward  glancing  of  the  eye,  at  intervals,  from  the  half- 
closed  lids ;  and,  at  such  moments,  there  was  a  curling 
contempt  upon  the  lips,  which  seemed  to  denote  a  cynical 
and  sarcastic  turn  of  mind.  A  restless  movement  of  the 
same  features  seemed  equally  significant  of  caprice  of  char 
acter,  and  a  flexibility  of  moral ;  while  the  chin  narrowed 
too  suddenly  and  became  too  sharp  at  the  extremity,  to 
persuade  a  thorough  physiognomist,  that  the  owner  could 
be  either  very  noble  in  his  aims,  or  very  generous  in  his 
sentiments.  But  as  these  outward  tokens  can  not  well  be 
considered  authority  in  the  work  of  judgment,  let  events, 
which  speak  for  themselves,  determine  the  true  character 
of  our  travellers. 

They  had  reached  the  table  land  of  the  heights  which 
looked  down  upon  Charlemont,  at  a  moment  when  the 
beauty  of  the  scene  could  scarcely  fail  to  impress  itself 
upon  the  most  indifferent  observer.  The  elder  of  the  trav 
ellers,  who  happened  to  be  in  advance,  was  immediately 
arrested  by  it ;  and,  staying  the  progress  of  his  horse,  with 
hand  lifted  above  his  eye,  looked  around  him  with  a  delight 
which  expressed  itself  in  an  abrupt  ejaculation,  and  brought 
his  companion  to  his  side.  The  sun  had  just  reached  that 
point  in  his  descent,  which  enabled  him  to  level  a  shaft  of 
rosy  light  from  the  pinnacle  of  the  opposite  hill,  into  the 
valley  below,  where  it  rested  among  the  roofs  of  two  of  the 
cottages,  which  arose  directly  in  its  path.  The  occupants 
of  these  two  cottages  had  come  forth,  as  it  were,  in  answer 
to  the  summons  ;  and  old  and  young,  to  the  number  of  ten 
or  a  dozen  persons,  had  met,  in  the  winding  pathway  be- 


22  CHARLBMONT. 

tween,  which  led  through  the  valley,  and  in  front  of  every 
cottage  which  it  contained.  The  elder  of  the  cottagers  sat 
upon  the  huge  trunk. of  a  tree,  which  had  been  felled  beside 
the  road,  for  the  greater  convenience  of  the  traveller ;  and 
with  eyes  turned  in  the  direction  of  the  hill  on  which  the 
sunlight  had  sunk  and  appeared  to  slumber,  seemed  to  en 
joy  the  vision  with  no  less  pleasure  than  our  senior  travel 
ler.  Two  tall  damsels  of  sixteen,  accompanied  by  a  young 
man  something  older,  were  strolling  off  in  the  direction  of 
the  woods ;  while  five  or  six  chubby  girls  and  boys  were 
making  the  echoes  leap  and  dance  along  the  hills,  in  the 
clamorous  delight  which  they  felt  in  their  innocent  but  stir 
ring  exercises.  The  whole  scene  was  warmed  with  the  equal 
brightness  of  the  natural  and  the  human  sun.  Beauty  was 
in  the  sky,  and  its  semblance,  at  least,  was  on  the  earth. 
God  was  in  the  heavens,  and  in  his  presence  could  there  be 
other  than  peace  and  harmony  among  men ! 

"  How  beautiful !"  exclaimed  the  elder  of  our  travellers  — 
"  could  anything  be  more  so  !  How  pure,  how  peaceful ! 
See,  Warhani,.how  soft,  how  spirit-like,  that  light  lies  along 
the  hill-side,  and  how  distinct,  yet  how  delicate,  is  the  train 
which  glides  from  it  down  the  valley,  even  to  the  white 
dwellings  at  its  bottom,  from  which  it  seems  to  shrink  and 
tremble  as  if  half  conscious  of  intrusion.  And  yet  the 
picture  below  is  kindred  with  it.  That,  now,  is  a  scene 
that  I  delight  in — it  is  a  constant  picture  in  my  mind. 
There  is  peace  in  that  valley,  if  there  be  peace  anywhere 
on  earth.  The  old  nien  sit  before  the  door,  and  contem 
plate  with  mingled  feelings  of  pride  and  pleasure,  the  vigor 
ous  growth  of  their  children.  They  behold  in  them  their 
own  immortality,  even  upon  earth.  The  young  will  pre 
serve  their  memories,  and  transmit  their  names  to  other 
children  yet  unborn ;  and  how  must  such  a  reflection  rec 
oncile  them  to  their  own  time  of  departure,  not  unfitly 
shown  in  the  last  smiles  of  that  sunlight,  whicli  they  are  so 
soon  about  to  lose.  Like  him,  they  look  with  benevolence 


THE   TRAVELLERS.  23 

and  love  upon  the  world  from  which  they  will  soon  de 
part." 

"  Take  my  word  for  it,  uncle,  they  will  postpone  their 
departure  to  the  last  possible  moment,  and,  so  far  from 
looking  with  smiles  upon  what  they  are  about  to  leave  for 
ever,  they  will  leave  it  with  very  great  reluctance,  and  in 
monstrous  bad  humor.  As  for  regarding  their  children 
with  any  such  notions  as  those  you  dwell  upon  with  such 
poetical  raptures,  they  will  infinitely  prefer  transmitting 
for  themselves  their  names  and  qualities  to  the  very  end  of 
the  chapter.  Ask  any  one  of  them  the  question  now,  and 
he  will  tell  you  that  an  immortality,  each,  in  his  own  wig 
wam,  and  with  his  weight  of  years  and  infirmity  upon  him, 
would  satisfy  all  his  expectations.  If  they  look  at  the 
vigor  of  their  young,  it  is  to  recollect  that  they  themselves 
once  were  so,  and  to  repine  at  the  recollection.  Take  my 
word  for  it,  there  is  not  a  dad  among  them,  that  does  not 
envy  his  own  son  the  excellence  of  his  limbs,  and  the  long 
time  of  exercise  and  enjoyment  which  they  seemingly  as 
sure  him." 

"  Impossible  !"  exclaimed  the  elder  of  the  two  travellers. 
"  Impossible  !  I  should  be  sorry  to  think  as  you  do.  But 
you,  Warham,  can  not  understand  these  things.  You  are 
an  habitual  unbeliever — the  most  unfortunate  of  all  man 
kind." 

"  The  most  fortunate,  rather.  I  have  but  few  burdens 
of  credulity  to  carry.  The  stars  be  blessed,  my  articles  of 
faith  are  neither  very  many  nor  very  cumbrous.  I  should 
be  sorry  if  my  clients  were  so  few." 

"  I  should  be  sorry,  Warham,  if  I  had  so  little  feeling  as 
yourself." 

"And  I  should  be  still  more  sorry,  uncle,  if  I  had  half 
so  much.  vVhy,  sir,  yours  is  in  such  excess,  that  you  con 
tinually  mistake  the  joys  and  sorrows  of  other  people  for 
your  own.  You  laugh  and  weep  with  them  alternately; 
and,  until  all's  done  and  over,  you  never  seem  to  discover 


CHARLEMONT. 

that  the  business  was  none  of  yours; — that  you  had  none 
of  the  pleasure  which  made  you  laugh,  and  might  have  been 
spared  all  the  unnecessary  suffering  which  moved  your 
tears.  'Pon  my  soul,  sir,  you  pass  a  most  unprofitable  life." 

"  You  mistake,  Warham,  I  have  shared  both ;  and  my 
profits  have  been  equally  great  from  both  sources.  My 
susceptibility  has  been  an  exceeding  great  gain  to  me,  and 
has  quickened  all  my  senses.  There  is  a  joy  of  grief,  you 
know,  according  to  Ossian." 

"Nay,  if  you  quote  Ossian,  uncle,  I  give  you  up.  I 
don't  believe  in  Ossian,  and  his  raving  stuff  always  sickens 
me." 

"  I  sometimes  think,  Warham,"  said  the  uncle,  good  na- 
turedly,  "  that  Providence  has  denied  you  some  of  the  more 
human  faculties.  Nay,  I  fear  that  you  are  partially  defi 
cient  in  some  of  the  senses.  Do  you  see  that  sunlight  to 
which  I  point — there,  on  the  hill-side,  a  sort  of  rosy  haze, 
which  seems  to  me  eminently  beautiful  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir ;  and,  if  you  will  suffer  me,  I  will  get  out  of 
its  reach  as  quickly  as  possible.  I  have  been  half  blinded 
by  it  ever -since  you  found  it  so  beautiful.  Sunlight  is,  I 
think,  of  very  little  importance  to  professional  men,  unless 
as  a  substitute  for  candles,  and  then  it  should  come  over  the 
left  shoulder,  if  you  would  not  have  it  endanger  the  sight. 
Nay,  I  will  go  farther,  and  confess  that  it  is  better  than 
candlelight,  and  certainly  far  less  expensive.  Shall  we  go 
forward,  sir  ?" 

"  Warham,"  said  the  uncle,  with  increasing  gravity,  "  I 
should  be  sorry  to  believe  that  a  habit  of  speech  so  irreve- 
rential,  springs  from  anything  but  an  ambition  for  saying 
smart  things,  and  strange  things,  which  are  not  always 
smart.  It  would  give  me  great  pain  to  think  that  you 
were  devoid  of  any  of  those  sensibilities  whicti  soften  the 
hearts  of  other  men,  and  lead  them  to  generous  impulses." 

"  Nay,  be  not  harsh,  uncle.  You  should  know  me  better. 
I  trust  my  sensibilities,  and  senses  too,  may  be  sufficient 


THE   TRAVELLERS.  25 

for  all  proper  purposes,  when  the  proper  time  comes  for 
their  employment ;  but  I  can't  flame  up  at  every  sunbeam, 
and  grow  enthusiastic  in  the  contemplation  of  Bill  John 
son's  cottage,  and  Richard  Higgins's  hedgerow.  A  tur 
nip-patch  never  yet  could  waken  my  enthusiasm,  and  I  do 
believe,  sir — I  confess  it  with  some  shame  and  a  slight 
misgiving,  lest  my  admissions  should  give  you  pain — that 
my  fancy  has  never  been  half  so  greatly  enkindled  by  Car- 
thula,  of  the  bending  spear,  or  Morven  of  the  winds,  as  by 
the  sedate  and  homely  aspect  of  an  ordinary  dish  of  eggs 
and  bacon,  hot  from  the  flaming  frying-pan  of  some  worthy 
housewife." 

The  uncle  simply  looked  upon  the  speaker,  but  without 
answering.  He  was  probably  quite  too  much  accustomed 
to  his  modes  of  thought  and  speech  to  be  so  much  surprised 
as  annoyed  by  what  he  said.  Perhaps,  too,  his  own  benev 
olence  of  spirit  interfered  to  save  the  nephew  from  that 
harsher  rebuke  which  his  judgment  might  yet  have  very 
well  disposed  him  to  bestow. 

Following  the  course  of  the  latter  in  silence,  he  de 
scended  into  the  valley,  and  soon  made  his  way  among  the 
sweet  little  cottages  at  its  foot.  An  interchange  of  courte 
sies  between  the  travellers  and  the  villagers  whose  pres 
ence  had  given  occasion  to  some  portion  of  the  previous 
dialogue,  in  which  the  manner  of  the  younger  traveller  was 
civil,  and  that  of  the  elder  kind  ;  and  the  two  continued  on 
their  journey,  though  not  without  being  compelled  to  refuse 
sundry  invitations,  given  with  true  patriarchal  hospitality, 
to  remain  among  the  quiet  abodes  through  which  they 
passed. 

As  cottage  after  cottage  unfolded  itself  to  their  eyes, 
along  the  winding  avenue,  the  proprietors  appeared  at  door 
and  window,  and,  with  the  simple  freedoms  of  rural  life, 
welcomed  the  strangers  with  a  smile,  a  nod,  and  sometimes, 
when  sufficiently  nigh,  a  friendly  word  of  salutation,  but 

2 


26  CHARLEMONT. 

without  having  the  effect  of  arresting  their  onward  progress. 
Yet  many  a  backward  glance  was  sent  by  the  elder  of  the 
travellers,  whose  eyes,  beaming  with  satisfaction,  suffi 
ciently  declared  the  delight  which  he  received  from  the 
contemplation  of  so  many  of  the  mingled  graces  of  physical 
and  moral  nature.  His  loitering  steps  drew  from  his  young 
companion  an  occasional  remark,  which,  to  cars  less  benev 
olent  and  unsuspecting  than  than  those  of  the  senior,  might 
have  been  deemed  a  sarcasm ;  and  more  than  once  the  lips 
of  the  nephew  had  curled  with  contemptuous  smiles,  as  he 
watched  the  yearning  glances  of  his  uncle  on  eacli  side  of 
the  avenue,  as  they  wended  slowly  through  it. 

At  the  end  of  the  village,  and  at  the  foot  of  the  opposite 
hills,  they  encountered  a  group  of  young  people  of  both 
sexes,  whose  bursts  of  merriment  were  suddenly  restrained 
as  they  emerged  unexpectedly  into  sight.  The  girls  had 
been  sitting  upon  the  grassy  mead,  with  the  young  men  be 
fore  them ;  but  they  started  to  their  feet  at  the  sound  of 
strange  steps,  and  the  look  of  strange  faces.  Charlemont, 
it  must  be  remembered,  was  not  in  the  thoroughfare  of 
common  travel.  If  visited  at  all  by  strangers,  it  was  most 
usually  by  those  only  who  came  with  a  single  purpose. 
Nothing,  therefore  could  have  been  more  calculated  to  sur 
prise  a  community  so  insulated,  than  that  they  should 
attract,  but  not  arrest  the  traveller.  The  natural  surprise 
which  the  young  people  felt,  when  unexpectedly  encoun 
tered  in  their  rustic  sports,  was  naturally  increased  by  this 
unusual  circumstance,  and  they  looked  after  the  departing 
forms  of  the  wayfarers  with  a  wonder  and  curiosity  that 
kept  them  for  some  time  silent.  The  elder  of  the  two, 
meanwhile — one  of  whose  habits  of  mind  was  always  to 
give  instantaneous  utterance  to  the  feeling  which  was  uppor- 
most — dilated,  without  heeding  the  sneers  of  his  nephew, 
upon  the  apparent  happiness  which  they  witnessed. 

"  Here,  you  see,  Warham,  is  a  pleasure  which  the  great 
city  never  knows :  —  the  free  intercourse  of  the  sexes  in  all 


THE   TRAVELLERS.  27 

those  natural  exercises  which  give  health  to  the  body,  grace 
to  the  movement,  and  vivacity  to  the  manners." 

"  The  health  will  do  well  enough,"  replied  the  skeptic, 
"  but  save  me  from  the  grace  of  Hob  and  Hinney ;  and  as 
for  their  manners  —  did  I  hear  you  correctly,  uncle,  when 
you  spoke  of  their  manners  ?" 

"  Surely,  you  did.  I  have  always  regarded  the  natural 
manners  which  belong  to  the  life  of  the  forester,  as  being 
infinitely  more  noble,  as  well  as  more  graceful,  than  those 
of  the  citizen.  Where  did  you  ever  see  a  tradesman 
whose  bearing  was  not  mean  compared  with  that  of  the 
hunter  ?" 

"  Ay,  but  these  are  no  hunters,  and  scarcely  foresters.  I 
see  not  a  single  Nimrod  among  the  lads ;  and  as  for  the 
lasses,  even  your  eyes,  indulgent  as  they  usually  arc,  will 
scarcely  venture  to  insist  that  I  shall  behold  one  nymph 
among  them  worthy  to  tie  the  shoe-latchets  of  Diana.  The 
manners  of  the  hunter  are  those  of  an  elastic  savage ;  but 
these  lads  shear  sheep,  raise  hogs  for  the  slaughter-pen, 
and  seldom  perform  a  nobler  feat  than  felling  a  bullock. 
They  have  none  of  the  elasticity  which,  coupled  with 
strength,  makes  the  grace  of  the  man ;  and  they  walk  as 
if  perpetually  in  the  faith  that  their  corn-rows  and  pota- 
toe-hills  were  between  their  legs." 

"  Did  you  note  the  young  woman  in  the  crimson  body, 
Warham  ?  Was  she  not  majestically  made  ?" 

"  It  struck  me  she  would  weigh  against  any  two  of  the 
company." 

•'  She  is  rather  heavy,  I  grant  you,  but  her  carriage, 
Warham !" 

"  Would  carry  weight — nothing  more." 

"  There  was  one  little  girl,  just  rising  into  womanhood ; 
— you  must  admit  that  she  had  a  very  lovely  face,  and  her 
form—" 

"  My  dear  uncle,  what  is  it  that  you  will  not  desire  me 
to  believe  ?  You  are  sadly  given  to  proselytism,  and  take 


28  CHARLEMONT. 

infinite  pains  to  compel  me  to  see  with  eyes  that  never  do 
their  owner  so  much  wrong,  as  when  they  reject  the  aid  of 
spectacles.  How  much  would  Ckarlemont  and  its  inhabi 
tants  differ  to  your  sight,  were  you  only  to  take  your  green 
spectacles  from  the  shagreen  case  in  which  they  do  no 
duty.  But  if  you  are  resolved,  in  order  to  seem  youthful,  to 
let  your  age  go  unprovided  with  the  means  of  seeing  as 
youth  would  see,  at  least  suffer  me  to  enjoy  the  natural  priv 
ileges  of  twenty-five.  When,  like  you,  my  hairs  whiten, 
and  my  eyes  grow  feeble,  ten  to  one,  I  shall  think  with  you 
that  every  third  woodman  is  an  Apollo,  and  every  other 
peasant-girl  is  a  Venus,  whom " 

The  words  of  the  speaker  ceased — cut  short  by  the  sud 
den  appearance  of  a  form  and  face,  the  beauty  and  dignity 
of  which  silenced  the  skeptic,  and  made  him  doubtful,  for 
the  moment,  whether  he  had  not  in  reality  reached  that 
period  of  confused  and  confounding  vision,  which,  as  he 
alleged  to  be  the  case  with  his  uncle,  loses  all  power  of 
discrimination.  A  maiden  stood  before  him  —  tall,  erect, 
majestic — beautiful  after  no  ordinary  standard  of  beauty. 
She  was  a  brunette,  with  large  dark  eyes,  which,  though 
bright,  seemed  dark  with  excess  of  bright — and  had  a 
depth  of  expression  which  thrilled  instantly  through  the 
bosom  of  the  spectator.  A  single  glance  did  she  bestow 
upon  the  travellers,  while  she  acknowledged,  by  a  slight 
courtesy,  the  respectful  bow  which  they  made  her.  They 
drew  up  their  horses  as  with  mutual  instinct,  but  she  passed 
them  quickly,  courtesying  a  second  time  as  she  did  so,  and, 
in  another  moment  a  turn  of  the  road  concealed  her  from 
the  eyes  of  the  travellers. 

"  What  say  you  to  that,  Warham  ?"  demanded  the  senior 
cxultingly. 

"  A  Diana,  in  truth  ;  but,  uncle,  we  find  her  not  among 
the  rest.  She  is  none  of  your  cottagers.  She  is  of  another 
world  and  element.  She  is  no  Charlemonter." 

And,  as  he  spoke,  the  younger  traveller  looked  back  with 


THE   TRAVELLERS.  29 

straining  eyes  to  catch  another  glance  of  the  vanished  ob 
ject,  but  in  vain. 

"  You  deserve  never  to  see  a  lovely  woman  again,  War- 
ham,  for  your  skepticism." 

"  But  I  will  have  a  second  look  at  her,  uncle,  though  the 
skies  fall,"  answered  the  young  man,  as,  wheeling  his 
horse  round,  he  deliberately  galloped  back  to  the  bend 
in  the  avenue,  by  which  she  had  been  hidden  from  his 
view. 

He  had  scarcely  reached  the  desired  point,  when  he  sudden 
ly  recoiled  to  find  the  object  of  his  pursuit  standing  motion 
less  just  beyond,  with  eyes  averted  to  the  backward  path — 
her  glance  consequently  encountering  his  own,  the  very  mo 
ment  when  he  discovered  her.  A  deep  crimson,  visible  even 
where  he  stood,  suffused  her  cheeks  when  she  beheld  him ; 
and  without  acknowledging  the  second  bow  which  the  trav 
eller  made,  she  somewhat  haughtily  averted  her  head  with 
a  suddenness  which  shook  her  long  and  raven  tresses  en 
tirely  free  of  the  net- work  which  confined  them. 

"  A  proud  gipsy  !"  muttered  the  youth  as  he  rode  back 
to  his  uncle — "just  such  a  spirit  as  I  should  like  to  tame." 
He  took  especial  care,  however,  that  this  sentiment  did  not 
reach  the  ears  of  his  senior. 

"  Well  ?"  said  the  latter,  inquiringly,  at  his  approach. 

"  I  am  right  after  all,  uncle : — the  wench  is  no  better 
than  the  rest.  A  heavy  bulk  that  seemed  dignified  only 
because  she  is  too  fat  for  levity.  She  walks  like  a  blind 
plough-horse  in  a  broken  pasture,  up  and  down,  over  and 
over ;  with  a  gait  as  rigid  and  deliberate  as  if  9  she  trod 
among  the  hot  cinders,  and  had  corns  on  all  her  toes.  She 
took  us  so  by  surprise  that  if  we  had  not  thought  her  beau 
tiful  we  must  have  thought  her  ugly,  and  the  chances  are 
equal,  that,  on  a  second  meeting,  we  shall  both  think  her 
so.  I  shall,  I'm  certain,  and  you  must,  provided  you  give 
your  eyes  the  benefit,  and  your  nose  the  burden  of  your 
green  specs." 


30  CHARLEMONT. 

"  Impossible  !  I  can  scarce  believe  it,  Warham,"  replied 
the  senior.  "  I  thought  her  very  beautiful." 

"  I  shall  never  rely  on  your  judgment  again  ; — nay,  uncle, 
I  am  almost  inclined  to  suspect  your  taste." 

"  Well,  let  them  be  beautiful  or  ugly,  still  I  should  think 
the  same  of  the  beauty  of  this  village." 

"  While  ttie  sun  shines  it  may  be  tolerable  ;  but,  uncle, 
in  wet  bad  weather — it  must  .become  a  mere  pond,  it  lies 
so  completly  in  the  hollow  of  the  hills." 

"  There  is  reason  in  that,  Warham." 

"  And  yet,  even  as  a  pond,  it  would  have  its  advantages 
—  it  would  be  famous  for  duck-raising." 

"  Pshaw !  you  are  worse  than  a  Mahometan." 

"  Something  of  a  just  comparison,  uncle,  though  scarcely 
aimed,"  said  the  other ;  "  like  Mahomet,  you  know,  I  doubt 
the  possession  of  souls  by  women." 

"  Yet  if  these  of  Charlemont  have  not  souls,  they  have 
no  small  share  of  happiness  on  earth.  I  never  heard  more 
happy  laughter  from  human  lips  than  from  theirs.  They 
must  be  happy." 

"  I  doubt  that  also,"  was  the  reply.  "  See  you  not, 
uncle,  that  to  nine  or  ten  women  there  are  but  three  lads  ? 
Where  the  disproportion  is  so  great  among  the  sexes,  and 
where  it  is  so  unfavorable  to  the  weaker,  women  never  can 
be  happy.  Their  whole  lives  will  be  lives  of  turmoil, 
jealousy,  and  pulling  of  caps.  Nay,  eyes  shall  not  be  se 
cure  under  such  circumstances ;  and  Nan's  fingers  shall 
be  in  Doll's  hair,  and  Doll's  claws  in  Nanny's  cheeks, 
whenever  it  shall  so  happen,  that  Tom  Jenkins  shall  incline 
to  Nan,  or  John  Dobbins  to  Doll.  Such  a  disparity  be 
tween  the  sexes  is  one  of  the  most  fruitful  causes  of  domes 
tic  war." 

"  Warham,  where  do  you  think  to  go  when  you  die  ?" 

"  Where  there  shall  be  no  great  inequality  in  the  popu 
lation.  Believe  me,  uncle,  though  I  am  sometimes  dis 
posed  to  think  with  Mahomet,  and  deny  the  possession  of 


THE   TRAVELLERS.  31 

souls  to  the  sex,  I  also  incline  to  believe,  with  other  more 
charitable  teachers  —  however  difficult  it  may  be  to  recon 
cile  the  two  philosophies  —  that  there  will  be  no  lack  of 
them  in  either  world." 

"  Hush,  hush,  Warham,"  was  the  mild  rebuke  of  the 
senior  ;  "  you  go  too  far  —  you  are  irreverent.  As  for  this 
maiden,  I  still  think  her  very  beautiful  —  of  a  high  and 
noble  kind  of  beauty.  My  eyes  may  be  bad;  —  indeed  I 
am  willing  to  admit  they  are  none  of  the  best ;  but  I  feel 
certain  that  they  cannot  so  far  deceive  me,  when  we  con 
sider  how  nigh  we  were  to  her." 

"  The  matter  deserves  inquiry,  uncle,  if  it  were  only  to 
satisfy  your  faith  ;  —  suppose  we  ride  back,  both  of  us,  and 
see  for  ourselves  —  closely,  and  with  the  aid  of  the  green 
spectacles  ?  Not  that  I  care  to  see  farther  —  not  that  I  have 
any  doubts  —  but  I  wish  you  to  be  convinced  in  this  case, 
if  only  to  make  you  sensible  of  the  frequent  injustice  to 
which  your  indulgence  of  judgment,  subjects  the  critical 
fastidiousness  of  mine.  What  say  you ;  shall  we  wheel 
about  ?" 

"  Why,  you  are  mad,  surely.  It  is  now  sunset,  and  we 
have  a  good  eight  miles  before  we  get  to  Holme's  Station." 

"  But  we  can  sleep  in  Charlemont  to-night.  A  night  in 
this  earthly  Eden " 

u  And  run  the  risk  of  losing  our  company  ?  Oh,  no, 
most  worthy  nephew.  They  will  start  at  dawn  to-mor 
row." 

"  We  can  soon  come  up  with  'em." 

"  Perhaps  not,  and  the  risk  is  considerable.  Travelling 
to  the  Mississippi  is  no  such  small  matter  at  any  time,  and, 
in  these  times  it  is  only  with  a  multitude,  that  there  is 
safety.  The  murder  of  old  Whiteford,  is  a  sufficient  warn 
ing  not  to  go  alone  with  more  gold  than  lead  in  one's  pocket. 
We  are  two,  it  is  true,  but  better  ten  than  two.  You  are 
a  brave  fellow  enough,  Warham,  I  doubt  not ;  but  a  shot 
will  dispose  of  you,  and  after  that  I  should  be  an  easy  vie- 


32  CHARLEMONT. 

tim.  I  could  wink  and  hold  out  my  iron  as  well  as  the 
best  of  you,  .but  I  prefer  to  escape  the  necessity.  Let  us 
mend  our  pace.  We  are  burning  daylight." 

The  nephew,  with  an  air  of  some  impatience,  which,  how 
ever,  escaped  the  eyes  of  the  senior,  sent  his  horse  forward 
by  a  sharp  application  of  his  spur,  though  looking  back  the 
while,  with  a  glance  of  reluctance,  which  strongly  disagreed 
with  the  sentiments  which  he  expressed.  Indeed,  with  both 
the  travellers,  the  impression  made  by  the  little  village  of 
Charlemont  was  such  that  the  subject  seemed  nowise  dis 
pleasing  to  either,  and  furnished  the  chief  staple  of  conver 
sation  between  them,  as  they  rode  the  remaining  eight  miles 
of  their  journey.  The  old  man's  heart  had  been  subdued 
and  won  by  the  sweet  air  of  peace  which  seemed  to  over 
spread  and  hallow  the  soft  landscape,  and  the  smiling  cot 
tages  which  made  it  human.  The  laughing  maidens  with 
their  bright  eyes  and  cheering  accents,  gave  vivacity  to  its 
milder  charms.  We  have  heard  from  the  lips  of  the  younger 
traveller,  that  these  attractions  had  failed  to  captivate  his 
fancy.  We  may  believe  of  this  as  we  please.  It  is  very 
probable  that  he  had,  in  considerable  part,  spoken  nothing 
but  the  truth.  He  was  too  much  of  a  mocker ; —  one  of 
those  worldlings  who  derive  their  pleasures  from  circum 
stances  of  higher  conventional  attraction.  Pie  had  no  feel 
ing  for  natural  romance.  His  penchant,  was  decidedly  for 
the  artificial  existence  of  city  life  ;  and  the  sneers  which  he 
had  been  heard  to  express  at  the  humble  joys  of  rustic  life, 
its  tastes,  and  characteristics,  were,  in  truth,  only  such  as 
he  really  felt.  But,  even  in  his  case,  there  was  an  evident 
disposition  to  know  something  more  of  Charlemont.  He 
was  really  willing  to  return.  He  renewed  the  same  sub 
ject  of  conversation,  when  it  happened  to  flag,  with  obvi 
ous  eagerness  ;  and,  though  his  language  was  still  studiedly 
disparaging,  a  more  deeply  penetrating  judgment  than  that 
of  his  uncle,  would  have  seen  that  the  little  village,  slightly 
as  he  professed  to  esteem  it,  was  yet  an  object  of  thought 


THE   TRAVELLERS.  33 

and  interest  in  his  eyes.  Of  the  sources  of  this  new  interest 
time  must  inform  us. 

"  Well,  well,  Warkam,"  at  length  exclaimed  the  uncle, 
in  a  tone  that  seemed  meant  to  close  the  discussion  of  a 
topic  which  his  nephew  now  appeared  mischievously  bent 
to  thrust  upon  him,  "  you  will  return  to  Kentucky  in  the 
fall.  Take  Charlemont  in  your  route.  Stop  a  week  there. 
It  will  do  you  no  harm.  Possibly  you  may  procure  some 
clients — may,  indeed,  include  it  in  your  tour  of  practice  — 
at  all  events,  you  will  not  be  unprofitably  employed  if  you 
come  to  see  the  village  and  the  people  with  my  eyes,  which, 
I  doubt  not,  you  will  in  time." 

"  In  time,  perhaps,  I  may.  It  is  well  that  you  do  not 
insist  upon  any  hurried  convictions.  Were  I  at  your  years, 
uncle  mine,"  continued  the  other  irreverently,  "  I  should 
no  doubt  see  with  your  eyes,  and  possibly  feel  with  your 
desires.  Then,  no  doubt,  I  shall  acquire  a  taste  for  warm- 
ingpans  and  nightcaps — shall  look  for  landscapes  rather 
than  lands  —  shall  see  nothing  but  innocence  among  the 
young,  and  resignation  and  religion  among  the  old ;  and 
fancy,  in  every  aged  pair  of  bumpkins  that  I  see,  a  Darby 
and  Joan,  with  perpetual  peace  at  their  fireside,  though 
they  may  both  happen  to  lie  there  drunk  on  apple-brandy. 
Between  caudle-cups  and  'John  Anderson,  my  Jo-John,'  it 
is  my  hope  to  pass  the  evening  of  my  days  with  a  tolerable 
grace,  and  leave  behind  me  some  comely  representatives, 
who  shall  take  up  the  burden  of  the  ditty  where  I  leave  off 
On  this  head  be  sure  you  shall  have  no  cause  to  complain 
of  me.  I  shall  be  no  Malthusian,  as  you  certainly  have 
shown  yourself.  It  is  the  strangest  thing  to  me,  uncle, 
that,  with  all  your  spoken  rapture  for  the  sex,  you  should 
never  have  thought  of  securing  for  yourself  at  least  one 
among  the  crowd  which  you  so  indiscriminately  admire. 
Surely,  a  gentleman  of  your  personal  attractions — attrac 
tions  which  seem  resolute  to  cling  to  you  to  the  last — could 
not  have  found  much  difficulty  in  procuring  the  damsel  ho 


34  CHAELEMONT. 

desired !  And  when,  too,  your  enthusiasm  for  the  sex  is 
known,  one  would  think  it  only  necessary  that  you  should 
fling  your  handkerchief,  to  have  it  greedily  grappled  by  the 
fairest  of  the  herd.  How  is  it,  uncle — how  have  you 
escaped  from  them — from  yourself?" 

"  Pshaw,  Warham,  you  are  a  fool !"  exclaimed  the  senior, 
riding  forward  with  increasing  speed.  The  words  were 
spoken  good  naturedly,  but  the  youth  had  touched  a  spot, 
scarcely  yet  thoroughly  scarred  over,  in  the  old  man's  bo 
som  :  and  memories,  not  less  painful  because  they  had  been 
hidden  so  long,  were  instantly  wakened  into  fresh  and  cruel 
activity. 

It  will  not  diminish  the  offence  of  the  nephew  in  the  mind 
of  the  reader,  when  he  is  told  that  the  youth  was  not  igno 
rant  of  the  particular  tenderness  of  his  relative  in  this  re 
spect."  The  gentle  nature  of  the  latter,  alone,  rescued  him 
from  the  well-merited  reproach  of  suffering  his  habitual  lev 
ity  of  mood  to  prevail  in  reference  to  one  whom  even  he 
himself  was  disposed  to  honor.  But  few  words  passed  be 
tween  the  two,  ere  they  reached  the  place  of  appointment. 
The  careless  reference  of  the  youth  had  made  the  thoughts 
of  the  senior  active  at  the  expense  of  his  observation.  His 
eyes  were  now  turned  inward ;  and  the  landscape,  and  the 
evening  sun,  which  streamed  over  and  hallowed  it  with  a 
tender  beauty  to  the  last,  was  as  completely  hidden  from  his 
vision,  as  if  a  veil  had  been  drawn  above  his  sight.  The 
retrospect,  indeed,  is  ever  the  old  man's  landscape ;  and 
perhaps,  even  had  he  not  been  so  unkindly  driven  back  to 
its  survey,  our  aged  traveller  would  have  been  reminded  of 
the  past  in  the  momently-deepening  shadows  which  the  even 
ing  gathered  around  his  path.  Twilight  is  the  cherished 
season  for  sad  memories,  even  as  the  midnight  is  supposed 
to  be  that  of  guilty  ghosts ;  and  nothing,  surely,  can  be 
more  fitting  than  that  the  shadows  of  former  hopes  should 
revisit  us  in  those  hours  when  the  face  of  nature  itself 
seems  darkening  into  gloom. 


THE   TRAVELLERS.  35 

It  was  night  before  the  wayfarers  reached  the  appointed 
baiting  place.  There  they  found  their  company — a  sort 
of  little  caravan,  such  as  is  frequent  in  the  history  of  west 
ern  emigration — already  assembled,  and  the  supper  await 
ing  them.  Let  us  leave  them  to  its  enjoyment,  and  return 
once  more  to  the  village  of  Charlemont. 


36  CHAELEMONT. 


CHAPTER  III. 

THE   STRONG-MINDED   WOMAN. 

THE  young  maiden  last  met  by  our  travellers,  and  whoso 
appearance  had  so  favorably  impressed  them,  had  not  been 
altogether  uninfluenced  by  the  encounter.  Her  spirit  was 
of  a  musing  and  perhaps  somewhat  moody  character,  and 
the  little  adventure  related  in  our  last  chapter,  had  awa 
kened  in  her  mind  a  train  of  vague  and  purposeless  thought, 
from  which  she  did  not  strive  to  disengage  herself.  She 
ceased  to  pursue  the  direct  path  back  to  Charlemont,  the 
moment  she  had  persuaded  herself  that  the  strangers  had 
continued  on  their  way  ;  and  turning  from  the  beaten  track, 
she  strolled  aside,  following  the  route  of  a  brooklet,  the  wind 
ings  of  which,  as  it  led  her  forward,  were  completely  hid 
den  from  the  intrusive  glance  of  any  casual  wayfarer.  The 
prattle  of  the  little  stream  as  it  wound  upon  its  sleepless 
journey,  contributed  still  more  to  strengthen  the  musings 
of  those  vagrant  fancies  that  filled  the  maiden's  thoughts. 

She  sat  down  upon  the  prostrate  trunk  of  a  tree,  and  sur 
rendered  herself  for  a  while  to  their  control.  Her  thoughts 
were  probably  of  a  kind  which,  to  a  certain  extent,  are 
commended  to  every  maiden.  Among  them,  perpetually- 
rose  an  image  of  the  bold  and  handsome  stranger,  whose 
impudence,  in  turning  back  in  pursuit  of  her,  was  somewhat 
qualified  by  the  complimentary  curiosity  which  such  con 
duct  manifested.  Predominant  even  over  this  image,  how 
ever,  was  the  conviction  of  isolation  which  she  felt  where 
she  was,  and  the  still  more  painful  conviction,  that  the 


THE   STRONG-MINDED   WOMAN.  37 

future  was  without  promise.  Such  thoughts  and  apprehen 
sions  may  be  natural  enough  to  all  young  persons  of  active, 
earnest  nature,  not  permitted  to  perform  ;  but  in  the  bosom 
of  Margaret  Cooper  they  were  particularly  so.  Her  mind 
was  of  a  masculine  and  commanding  character,  and  was  ill- 
satisfied  with  her  position  and  prospect  in  Charlemont.  A 
quiet,  obscure  village,  such  as  that  we  have  described,  held 
forth  no  promise  for  a  spirit  so  proud,  impatient,  and  am 
bitious  as  hers.  She  knew  the  whole  extent  of  knowledge 
which  it  contained,  and  all  its  acquisitions  and  resources — 
she  had  sounded  its  depths,  and  traced  all  its  shallows.  The 
young  women  kept  no  pace  with  her  own  progress — they 
were  good,  silly  girls  enough — a  chattering,  playful  set, 
whom  small  sports  could  easily  satisfy,  and  who  seemed  to 
have  no  care,  and  scarce  a  hope,  beyond  the  hilly  limits  of 
their  homestead;  and  as  for  the  young  men — they  were 
only  suited  to  the  girls,  such  as  they  were,  and  could  never 
meet  the  demand  of  such  an  intellect  as  hers. 

This  lofty  self- estimate,  which  was  in  some  sense  just, 
necessarily  gave  a  tone  to  her  language  and  a  coloring  to 
all  her  thoughts,  such  as  good  sense  and  amiability  should 
equally  strive  to  suppress  and  conceal — unless,  as  in  the 
case  of  Margaret  Cooper,  the  individual  herself  was  with 
out  due  consciousness  of  their  presence.  It  had  the  effect 
of  discouraging  and  driving  from  her  side  many  a  good- 
natured  damsel,  who  would  have  loved  to  condole  with  her, 
and  might  have  been  a  pleasant  companion.  The  young 
women  regarded  her  with  some  dislike  in  consequence  of 
her  self-imposed  isolation  —  and  the  young  men  with  some 
apprehension.  Her  very  knowledge  of  books,  which  infi 
nitely  surpassed  that  of  all  her  sex  within  the  limits  of 
Charlemont,  was  also  an  object  of  some  alarm.  It  had 
been  her  fortune,  whether  well  or  ill  may  be  a  question,  to 
inherit  from  her  father  a  collection,  not  well  chosen,  upon 
which  her  mind  had  preyed  with  an  appetite  as  insatiate 
as  it  was  undiscriminating.  They  had  taught  her  many 


CHARLEMONT. 

things,  but  among  these  neither  wisdom  nor  patience  was 
included; — and  one  of  the  worst  lessons  which  she  had 
learned,  and  which  they  had  contributed  in  some  respects 
to  teach,  was  discontent  with  her  condition — a  discontent 
which  saddened,  if  it  did  not  embitter,  her  present  life, 
while  it  left  the  aspects  of  the  future  painfully  doubtful, 
even  to  her  own  eye. 

She  was  fatherless,  and  had  been  already  taught  some 
of  those  rude  lessons  which  painfully  teach  dependence ; 
but  such  lessons,  which  to  most  others  would  have  brought 
submission,  only  provoked  her  to  resistance.  Her  natural 
impetuosity  of  disposition,  strengthened  by  her  mother's 
idolatrous  indulgence,  increased  the  haughtiness  of  her 
character ;  and  when,  to  these  influences,  we  add  that  her 
surviving  parent  was  poor,  and  suffered  from  privations 
which  were  unfelt  by  many  of  their  neighbors,  it  may  be 
easily  conceived  that  a  temper  and  mind  such  as  we  have 
described  those  of  Margaret  Cooper — ardent,  commanding, 
and  impatient — hourly  found  occasion,  even  in  the  seclu 
ded  village  where  she  dwelt,  for  the  exercise  of  moods 
equally  adverse  to  propriety  and  happiness.  Isolated  from 
the  world  by  circumstances,  she  doubly  exiled  herself  from 
its  social  indulgences,  by  the  tyrannical  sway  of  a  superior 
will,  strengthened  and  stimulated  by  an  excitable  and  ever 
feverish  blood ;  and,  as  we  find  her  now,  wandering  sad 
and  sternly  by  the  brookside,  afar  from  the  sports  and  hum 
bler  sources  of  happiness,  which  gentler  moods  left  open  to 
the  rest,  so  might  she  customarily  be  found,  at  all  hours, 
when  it  was  not  absolutely  due  to  appearances  that  she 
should  be  seen  among  the  crowd. 

We  will  not  now  seek  to  pursue  her  musings  and  trace 
them  out  to  their  conclusions,  nor  will  it  be  necessary  that 
we  should  do  more  than  indicate  their  character.  That 
they  were  sad  and  solemn  as  usual  —  perhaps  humbling  — 
may  be  gathered  from  the  fact  that  a  big  tear  might  have 
been  seen,  long  gathering  in  her  eye  ;  —  the  next  moment 


THE   STRONG-MINDED   WOMAN.  89 

she  brushed  off  the  intruder  with  an  impatience  of  gesture, 
that  plainly  showed  how  much  her  proud  spirit  resented 
any  such  intrusion.  The  tear  dispersed  the  "images  which 
had  filled  her  contemplative  mood,  and  rising  from  her 
sylvan  seat,  she  prepared  to  move  forward,  when  a  voice 
calling  at  some  little  distance,  drew  her  attention.  Giving 
a  hasty  glance  in  the  direction  of  the  sound,  she  beheld  a 
young  man  making  his  way  through  the  woods,  and  ap 
proaching  her  with  rapid  footsteps.  His  evident  desire  to 
reach  her,  did  not,  however,  prompt  her  to  any  pause  in 
her  own  progress  ;  but,  as  if  satisfied  with  the  single  glance 
which  she  gave  him,  and  indifferent  utterly  to  his  object, 
she  continued  on  her  way,  nor  stopped  for  an  instant,  nor 
again  looked  back,  until  his  salutation,  immediately  behind 
her,  compelled  her  attention  and  answer. 

"Margaret  —  Miss  Cooper!"  said  the  speaker,  who  was 
a  young  rustic,  probably  twenty  or  twenty-one  years  of  age, 
of  tall,  good  person,  a  handsome  face,  which  was  smooth, 
though  of  dark  complexion,  and  lightened  by  an  eye  of 
more  than  ordinary  size  and  intelligence.  His  tones  were 
those  of  one  whose  sensibilities  were  fine  and  active,  and  it 
would  not  have  called  for  much  keen  observation  to  have 
seen  that  his  manner,  in  approaching  and  addressing  the 
maiden,  was  marked  with  some  little  trepidation.  She, 
on  the  contrary,  seemed  too  familiar  with  his  homage,  or 
too  well  satisfied  of  his  inferiority,  to  deign  much  attention 
to  his  advances.  She  answered  his  salutation  coldly,  and 
was  preparing  to  move  forward,  when  his  words  again 
called  for  her  reluctant  notice. 

"  I  have  looked  for  you,  Margaret,  full  an  hour.  Mother 
sent  me  after  you  to  beg  that  you  will  come  there  this  even 
ing.  Old  Jenks  has  come  up  from  the  river,  and  brought 
a  store  of  fine  things  —  there's  a  fiddle  for  Ned,  and  Jason 
Lightner  has  a  flute,  and  I  —  I  have  a  small  lot  of  books, 
Margaret,  that  I  think  will  please  you." 


40  CHARLEMONT. 

"  I  thank  you,  William  Hinkley,  and  thank  your  mother, 
but  I  can  not  come  this  evening." 

"  But  why  not,  Margaret  ?  —  your  mother's  coming  —  she 
promised  for  you  too,  but  I  thought  you  might  not  get 
home  soon  enough  to  see  her,  and  so  I  came  out  to  seek 
you." 

"  I  am  very  sorry  you  took  so  much  trouble,  William,  for 
I  can  not  come  this  evening." 

"  But  why  not,  Margaret  ?  You  have  no  other  promise 
to  go  elsewhere  have  you  ?" 

"  None,"  was  the  indifferent  reply. 

"  Then  —  but,  perhaps,  you  are  not  well,  Margaret?" 

"  I  am  quite  well,  I  thank  you,  William  Hinkley,  but  I 
don't  feel  like  going  out  this  evening.  I  am  not  in  the 
humor." 

Already,  in  the  little  village  of  Charlemont,  Margaret 
Cooper  was  one  of  the  few  who  were  permitted  to  indulge  in 
humors,  and  William  Hinkley  learned  the  reason  assigned 
for  her  refusal,  with  an  expression  of  regret  and  disappoint 
ment,  if  not  of  reproach.  An  estoppel,  which  would  have 
been  so  conclusive  in  the  case  of  a  city  courtier,  was  not 
sufficient,  however,  to  satisfy  the  more  frank  and  direct 
rustic,  and  he  proceeded  with  some  new  suggestions,  in  the 
hope  to  change  her  determination. 

"  But  you'll  be  so  lonesome  at  home,  Margaret,  when 
your  mother's  with  us.  She'll  be  gone  before  you  can  get 
back,  and " 

"  I'm  never  lonesome,  William,  at  least  I'm  never  so 
well  content  or  so  happy  as  when  I'm  alone,"  was  the  self- 
satisfactory  reply. 

"  But  that's  so  strange,  Margaret.  It's  so  strange  that 
you  should  be  different  from  everybody  else.  I  often 
wonder  at  it,  Margaret ;  for  I  know  none  of  the  other  girls 
but  love  to  be  where  there's  a  fiddle,  and  where  there's 
pleasant  company.  It's  so  pleasant  to  be  where  every 
body's  pleased  ;  and  then,  Margaret,  where  one  can  talk  so 


THE   STRONG-MINDED   WOMAN.  41 

well  as  you,  and  of  so  many  subjects,  it's  a  greater  wonder 
still  that  you  should  not  like  to  be  among  the  rest." 

"  I  do  not,  however,  William,"  was  the  answer  in  more 
softened  tones.  There  was  something  in  this  speech  of 
her  lover,  that  found  its  way  through  the  only  accessible 
avenues  of  her  nature.  It  was  a  truth,  which  she  often 
repeated  to  herself  with  congratulatory  pride,  that  she  had 
few  feelings  or  desires  in  common  with  the  crowd. 

"  It  is  my  misfortune,"  she  continued,  "  to  care  very 
little  for  the  pastimes  you  speak  of;  and  as  for  the  com 
pany,  I've  no  doubt  it  will  be  very  pleasant  for  those  who 
go,  but  to  me  it  will  afford  very  little  pleasure.  Your 
mother  must  therefore  excuse  me,  William : — I  should  be  a 
very  dull  person  among  the  rest." 

"  She  will  be  so  very  sorry,  Margaret  —  and  Ned,  whose 
new  fiddle  has  just  come,  and  Jason  Lightner,  with  his  flute. 
They  all  spoke  of  you  and  look  for  you  above  all,  to  hear 
them  this  evening.  They  will  be  so  disappointed." 

William  Hinkley  spoke  nothing  of  his  own  disappoint 
ment,  but  it  was  visible  enough  in  his  blank  countenance,  and 
sufficiently  audible  in  the  undisguised  faltering  of  his  accents. 

"  I  do  not  think  they  will  be  so  much  disappointed, 
William  Hinkley.  They  have  no  reason  to  be,  as  they 
have  no  right  to  look  for  me  in  particular.  I  have  very 
little  acquaintance  with  the  young  men  you  speak  of." 

"  Why,  Margaret,  they  live  alongside  of  you  —  and  I'm 
sure  you've  met  them  a  thousand  times  in  company,"  was 
the  response  of  the  youth,  uttered  in  tones  more  earnest 
than  any  he  had  yet  employed  in  the  dialogue,  and  with 
something  of  surprise  in  his  accents. 

"  Perhaps  so  ;  but  that  makes  them  no  intimates  of  mine, 
William  Hinkley.  They  may  be  very  good  young  men, 
and,  indeed,  so  far  as  I  know,  they  really  are ;  but  that 
makes  no  difference.  We  find  our  acquaintances  and  our 
intimates  among  those  who  are  congenial,  who  somewhat 
resemble  us  in  spirit,  feeling,  and  understanding." 


42  CHARLEMONT. 

"  Ah,  Margaret !"  said  her  rustic  companion  with  a  sigh, 
which  amply  testified  to  the  humility  of  his  own  self-esti 
mate,  and  of  the  decline  of  his  hope  which  came  with  it  — 
"ah,  Margaret,  if  that  be  the  rule,  where  are  you  going  to 
find  friends  and  intimates  in  Charlemont  ?" 

"  Where !"  was  the  single  word  spoken  by  the  haughty 
maiden,  as  her  eye  wandered  off  to  the  cold  tops  of  the 
distant  hills  along  which  the  latest  rays  of  falling  sunlight, 
faint  and  failing,  as  they  fell,  imparted  a  hue,  which  though 
bright,  still  as  it  failed  to  warm,  left  an  expression  of  Octo 
ber  sadness  to  the  scene,  that  fitly  harmonized  with  the 
chilling  mood  under  which  she  had  spoken  throughout  the 
interview. 

"  I  don't  think,  Margaret,"  continued  the  lover,  finding 
courage  as  he  continued,  "  that  such  a  rule  is  a  good  one. 
I  know  it  can't  be  a  good  one  for  happiness.  There's  many 
a  person  that  never  will  meet  his  or  her  match  in  this 
world,  in  learning  and  understanding  —  and  if  they  won't 
look  on  other  persons  with  kindness,  because  they  are  not 
altogether  equal  to  them,  why  there's  a  chance  that  they'll 
always  be  solitary  and  sad.  It's  a  real  blessing,  I  believe, 
to  have  great  .sense,  but  I  don't  see,  that  because  one  has 
great  sense,  that  one  should  not  think  well  and  kindly  of 
those  who  have  little,  provided  they  be  good,  and  are  will 
ing  to  be  friendly.  Now,  a  good  heart  seems  to  be  the 
very  best  tiling  that  nature  can  give  us ;  and  I  know,  Mar 
garet,  that  there's  no  two  better  hearts  in  all  Charlemont 
—  perhaps  in  all  the  world,  though  I  won't  say  that  —  than 
cousin  Ned  Hinkley,  and  Jason  Lightner,  and " 

"  I  don't  deny  their  merits  and  their  virtues,  and  their 
goodness  of  heart,  William.  Hinkley,"  was  the  answer  of 
the  maiden  —  "I  only  say  that  the  possession  of  these  quali 
ties  gives  them  no  right  to  claim  my  sympathies  or  affection. 
These  claims  are  only  founded  upon  congeniality  of  charac 
ter  and  mind,  and  without  this  congeniality,  there  can  be  no 
proper,  no  lasting  intimacy  between  persons.  They  no 


THE   STRONG-MIXDED   WOMAN.  43 

doubt,  will  find  friends  between  whom  and  themselves,  this 
congeniality  exists.  I,  on  the  other  hand,  must  be  per 
mitted  to  find  mine,  after  my  own  ideas,  and  as  I  best  can. 
But  if  I  do  not  —  the  want  of  them  gives  me  no  great  con 
cern.  I  find  company  enough,  and  friends  enough,  even  in 
these  woods,  to  satisfy  the  desires  of  my  heart  at  present ; 
I  am  not  anxious  to  extend  my  acquaintance  or  increase  the 
number  of  my  intimates." 

William  Hinkley,  who  had  become  somewhat  warmed  by 
the  argument,  could  have  pursued  the  discussion  somewhat 
further  ;  but  the  tones  and  manner  of  his  companion,  to  say 
nothing  of  her  words,  counselled  him  to  forbear.  Still,  he 
was  not  disposed  altogether  to  give  up  his  attempts  to  secure 
her  presence  for  the  evening  party. 

"  But  if  you  don't  come  for  the  company,  Margaret,  rec 
ollect  the  music.  Even  if  Ned  Hinkley  was  a  perfect 
fool,  which  he  is  not,  and  Jason  Lightner  were  no  better, 
—  nobody  can  say  that  they  are  not  good  musicians.  Old 
Squire  Bee  says  there's  not  in  all  Kentucky  a  better  violin 
ist  than  Ned,  and  Jason's  flute  is  the  sweetest  sound  that 
ear  ever  listened  to  along  these  hills.  If  you  don't  care 
anything  for  the  players,  Margaret,  I'm  sure  you  can't  be 
indifferent  to  their  music ;  and  I  know  they  are  anything 
but  indifferent  to  what  you  may  think  about  it.  They  will 
play  ten  times  as  well  if  you  are  there ;  and  I'm  sure, 
Margaret,  I  shall  be  the  last"  —  here  the  tone  of  the  speak 
er's  voice  audibly  faltered  —  "I  shall  be  the  very  last  to 
think  it  sweet  if  you  are  not  there." 

But  the  words  and  faltering  accents  of  the  lover  equally 
failed  in  subduing  the  inflexible,  perverse  mood  of  the 
haughty  maiden.  Her  cold  denial  was  repeated  ;  and  witli 
looks  that  did  not  fail  to  speak  the  disappointment  of  Wil 
liam  Hinkley,  he  attended  her  back  to  the  village.  Their 
progress  was  marked  by  coldness  on  the  one  hand,  and  de 
cided  sadness  on  the  other.  The  conversation  was  carried 
on  in  monosyllables  only,  on  the  part  of  Margaret,  whilo 


44  CHARLEMONT. 

timidity  and  a  painful  hesitancy  marked  the  language  of 
her  attendant.  But  a  single  passage  may  be  remembered 
of  all  that  was  said  between  the  two,  ere  they  separated  at 
the  door  of  the  widow  Cooper. 

"  Did  you  see  the  two  strangers,  Margaret,  that  passed 
through  Charlemont  this  afternoon  ?" 

The  cheeks  of  the  maiden  became  instantly  flushed,  and 
the  rapid  utterance  of  her  reply  in  the  affirmative,  denoted 
an  emotion  which  the  jealous  instincts  of  the  lover  readily 
perceived.  A  cold  chill,  on  the  instant,  pervaded  the  veins 
of  the  youth  ;  and  that  night  he  did  not  hear,  any  more 
than  Margaret  Cooper,  the  music  of  his  friends.  He  was 
present  all  the  time  and  he  answered  their  inquiries  as 
usual ;  but  his  thoughts  were  very  far  distant,  and  some 
how  or  other,  they  perpetually  mingled  up  the  image  of 
the  young  traveller,  whom  he  too  had  seen,  with  that  of  the 
proud  woman,  whom  he  was  not  yet  sure  that  he  unprofit* 
ably  worshipped. 


SIMPLICITY    AND   THE   SERPENT.  45 


CHAPTER  IV. 

SIMPLICITY   AND   THE  SERPENT. 

THE  mirth  and  music  of  Charleniont  were  enjoyed  by 
others,  but  not  by  Margaret  Cooper.  The  resolution  not 
to  share  in  the  pleasures  of  the  young  around  her,  which 
she  showed  to  her  rustic  lover,  was  a  resolution  firmly 
persevered  in  throughout  the  long  summer  which  followed. 
Her  wayward  mood  shut  out  from  her  contemplation  the 
only  sunshine  of  the  place ;  and  her  heart,  brooding  over 
the  remote,  if  not  the  impossible,  denied  itself  those  joys 
which  were  equally  available  and  nigh.  Her  lonesome 
walks  became  longer  in  the  forests,  and  later  each  evening 
grew  the  hour  of  her  return  to  the  village.  Her  solitude 
daily  increased,  as  the  youth  who  really  loved  her  with 
all  the  ardency  of  a  first  passion,  and  who  regarded  her  at 
the  same  time  with  no  little  veneration  for  Ihose  superior 
gifts  of  mind  and  education  which,  it  was  the  general  con 
viction  in  Charlemont,  that  she  possessed,  became,  at 
length,  discouraged  in  a  pursuit  which  hitherto  had  found 
nothing  but  coldness  and  repulse.  Not  that  he  ceased  to 
love  —  nay,  he  did  not  cease  entirely  to  hope.  What  lover 
ever  did  ?  He  fondly  ascribed  to  the  object  of  his  affec 
tions  a  waywardness  of  humor,  which  he  fancied  would 
pass  away  after  a  season,  and  leave  her  mind  to  the  influ 
ence  of  a  more  sober  and  wholesome  judgment.  Perhaps, 
too,  like  many  other  youth  in  like  circumstances,  he  did 
not  always  see  or  feel  the  caprice  of  which  he  was  the 


46  CHARLEMONT. 

victim.  But  for  this  fortunate  blindness,  many  a  fair  dam 
sel  would  lose  her  conquest  quite  as  suddenly  as  it  was  made. 

But  the  summer  passed  away,  and  the  forest  put  on  the 
sere  and  sombre  robes  of  autumn,  and  yet  no  visible  change 
—  none  at  least  more  favorable  to  the  wishes  of  William 
Hinkley  —  took  place  in  the  character  and  conduct  of  the 
maiden.  Her  mind,  on  the  contrary,  seemed  to  take  some 
thing  of^its  hue  from  the  cold  sad  tones  of  the  forest.  The 
serious  depth  of  expression  in  her  dark  eyes  seemed  to 
deepen  yet  more,  and  become  yet  more  concentrated  — 
their  glance  acquired  a  yet  keener  intentness  —  an  inflexi 
bility  of  direction  —  which  suffered  them  seldom  to  turn 
aside  from  those  moody  contemplations,  which  had  made 
her,  for  a  long  time.,  infinitely  prefer  to  gaze  upon  the  rocks, 
and  woods,  and  waters,  than  upon  the  warm  and  wooing 
features  of  humanity. 

At  distance  the  youth  watched  and  sometimes  followed 
her,  and  when,  with  occasional  boldness,  he  would  draw 
nigh  to  her  secret  wanderings,  a  cold  fear  filled  his  heart, 
and  he  shrunk  back  with  all  the  doubt  and  dread  of  some 
guilty  trespasser.  But  his  doubt,  and  we  may  add,  his 
dread  also,  was  soon  to  cease  entirely,  in  the  complete  con 
viction  of  his  hopelessness.  The  day  and  the  fate  were 
approaching,  in  the  person  of  one,  to  whom  a  natural  in 
stinct  had  already  taught  him  to  look  with  apprehension, 
and  whose  very  first  appearance  had  inspired  him  with 
antipathy. 

What  a  strange  prescience,  in  some  respects,  lias  the 
devoted  and  watchful  heart  that  loves !  William  Hinkley, 
had  seen  but  for  a  single  instant,  the  face  of  that  young 
traveller,  who  has  already  been  introduced  to  us,  and  that 
instant  was  enough  to  awaken  his  dislike  —  nay,  more,  his 
hostility.  Yet  no  villager  in  Charlemont  but  would  have 
told  you,  that,  of  all  the  village,  William  Hinkley  was  the 
most  gentle,  the  most  generous  —  the  very  last  to  be  moved 
by  bad  passions,  by  jealousy  or  hate. 


SIMPLICITY   AND   THE   SERPENT.  47 

The  youth  whom  we  have  seen  going  down  with  his 
uncle  to  the  great  valley  of  the  Mississippi,  was  now  upon 
his  return.  He  was  now  unaccompanied  by  the  benignant 
senior  with  whom  we  first  made  his  acquaintance.  He  had 
simply  attended  the  old  bachelor,  from  whom  he  had  con 
siderable  expectations,  to  his  plantation,  in  requital  of  the 
spring  visit  which  the  latter  had  paid  to  his  relatives  in 
Kentucky ;  and  having  spent  the  summer  in  the  southwest, 
was  about  to  resume  his  residence,  and  the  profession  of 
the  law,  iii  that  state.  We  have  seen  that,  however  he 
might  have  succeeded  in  disguising  his  true  feelings  from 
his  uncle,  he  was  not  unmoved  by  the  encounter  with  Mar 
garet  Cooper,  on  the  edge  of  the  village.  He  now  remem 
bered  the  casual  suggestion  of  the  senior,  which  concluded 
their  discussion  on  the  subject  of  her  beauty ;  and  he  re 
solved  to  go  aside  from  his  direct  path,  and  take  Charle- 
mont  in  the  route  of  his  return.  Not  that  he  himself  needed 
a  second  glance  to  convince  him  of  that  loveliness  which, 
in  his  wilfulness,  he  yet  denied.  He  was  free  to  acknow 
ledge  to  himself  that  Margaret  Cooper  was  one  of  the  no 
blest  and  most  impressive  beauties  he  had  ever  seen.  The 
very  scorn  that  spoke  in  all  her  features,  the  imperious  fires 
that  kindled  in  her  eyes,  were  better  calculated  than  any 
more  gentle  expressions,  to  impose  upon  one  who  was  apt 
to  be  skeptical  on  the  subject  of  ordinary  beauties.  The 
confidence  and  consciousness  of  superiority,  which  too 
plainly  spoke  out  in  the  features  of  Margaret,  seemed  to 
deny  to  his  mind  the  privilege  of  doubting  or  discussing 
her  charms  —  a  privilege  upon  which  no  one  could  have 
been  more  apt  to  insist  than  himself.  This  seeming  denial, 
while  it  suggested  to  him  ideas  of  novelty,  provoked  his 
curiosity  and  kindled  his  pride.  The  haughty  glance  witli 
which  she  encountered  his  second  approach,  aroused  his 
vanity,  and  a  latent  desire  arose  in  his  heart,  to  overcome 
one  who  had  shown  herself  so  premature  in  her  defiance. 
We  will  not  venture  to  assert  that  the  young  traveller  had 


48  CHARLEMONT. 

formed  any  very  deliberate  designs  of  conquest,  but,  it  may 
be  said,  as  well  here  as  elsewhere,  that  his  self-esteem  was 
great;  and  accustomed  to  easy  conquests  among  the  sex, 
in  the  region  where  he  dwelt,  it  was  only  necessary  to  in 
flame  his  vanity,  to  stimulate  him  to  the  exercise  of  all  his 
arts. 

It  was  about  noon,  on  one  of  those  bright,  balmy  days, 
early  in  October,  when  "  the  bridal  of  the  earth  and  sky," 
in  the  language  of  the  good  old  Herbert,  is  going  on  — 
when,  the  summer  heats  subdued,  there  is  yet  nothing 
either  cold,  or  repulsive  in  the  atmosphere ;  and  the  soft 
breathing  from  the  southwest  has  just  power  enough  to 
stir  the  flowers  and  disperse  their  scents ;  that  our  young 
traveller  was  joined  in  his  progress  towards  Charlemont, 
by  a  person  mounted  like  himself  and  pursuing  a  similar 
direction. 

At  the  first  glance  the  youth  distinguished  him  as  one 
of  the  homely  forest  preachers  of  the  methodist  persuasion, 
who  are  the  chief  agents  and  pioneers  of  religion  in  most 
of  the  western  woods.  His  plain,  unstudied  garments  all 
of  black,  rigid  and  unfashionable  ;  his  pale,  demure  features, 
and  the  general  humility  of  his  air  and  gesture,  left  our 
young  skeptic  little  reason  to  doubt  of  this ;  and  when  the 
other  expressed  his  satisfaction  at  meeting  with  a  compan 
ion  at  last,  after  a  long  and  weary  ride  without  one,  the 
tone  of  his  expressions,  the  use  of  biblical  phraseology,  and 
the  monotonous  solemnity  of  his  tones,  reduced  the  doubts 
of  the  youth  to  absolute  certainty.  At  first,  with  the  habit 
ual  levity  of  the  young  and  skeptical,  he  congratulated  him 
self  upon  an  encounter  which  promised  to  aiford  him  a  good 
subject  for  quizzing ;  but  a  moment's  reflection  counselled 
him  to  a  more  worldly  policy,  and  he  restrained  his  natural 
impulse  in  order  that  he  might  first  sound  the  depths  of  the 
preacher,  and  learn  in  what  respect  he  might  be  made  sub 
servient  to  his  own  purposes.  He  had  already  learned 
from  the  latter  that  he  was  on  his  way  to  Charlemont, 


SIMPLICITY   AND   THE   SERPENT.  49 

of  which  place  he  seemed  to  have  some  knowledge ;  and 
the  youth,  in  an  instant,  conceived  the  possibility  of  making 
him  useful  in  procuring  for  himself  a  favorable  introduction 
to  the  place.  With  this  thought,  he  assumed  the  grave 
aspect  and  deliberate  enunciation  of  his  companion,  ex 
pressed  himself  equally  gratified  to  meet  with  a  person 
who,  if  he  did  not  much  mistake,  was  a  divine,  and  conclu 
ded  his  address  by  the  utterance  of  one  of  those  pious  com 
monplaces  which  are  of  sufficiently  easy  acquisition,  and 
which  at  once  secured  him  the  unscrupulous  confidence  of 
his  companion. 

"  Truly,  it  gladdens  me,  sir,"  said  the  holy  man  in  reply, 
"  to  meet  with  one,  as  a  fellow-traveller  in  these  lonesome 
ways,  who  hath  a  knowledge  of  God's  grace  and  the  bles 
sings  which  he  daily  sheddeth,  even  as  the  falling  of  the 
dews,  upon  a  benighted  land.  It  is  my  lot,  and  I  repine 
not  that  such  it  is,  to  be  for  ever  a  wayfarer,  in  the  desert 
where  there  are  but  few  fountains  to  refresh  the  spirit. 
When  I  say  desert,  young  gentleman,  I  speak  not  in  the 
literal  language  of  the  world,  for  truly  it  were  a  most 
sinful  denial  of  God's  bounty  were  I  to  say,  looking  round 
upon  the  mighty  forests  through  which  I  pass,  and  upon 
the  rich  soil  over  which  I  travel,  that  my  way  lies  not 
through  a  country  covered,  thrice  covered,  with  the  best 
worldly  bounties  of  the  Lord.  But  it  is  a  moral  desert 
which  my  speech  would  signify.  The  soul  of  man  is  here 
lacking  the  blessed  fountains  of  the  truth — the  mind  of 
man  here  lacketh  the  holy  and  joy-shedding  lights  of  the 
spirit ;  and  it  rejoiceth  me,  therefore,  when  I  meet  with 
one,  like  thyself,  in  whose  language  I  find  a  proof  that  thou 
hast  neither  heard  the  word  with  idle  ears,  nor  treasured  it 
in  thy  memory  with  unapplying  mind.  May  I  ask  of  thee, 
my  young  friend,  who  thou  art,  and  by  what  name  I  shall 
call  thee  ? — not  for  the  satisfaction  of  an  idle  curiosity,  to 
know  either  thy  profession  or  thy  private  concerns,  but  that 
I  may  the  better  speak  to  thee  in  our  conference  hereafter. 

3 


50  CHARLEMONT. 

Thou  hast  rightly  conjectured  as  to  my  calling — and  my 
own  name,  which  is  one  unknown  to  most  even  in  these  for 
ests,  is  John  Cross — I  come  of  a  family  in  North  Carolina, 
which  still  abide  in  that  state,  by  the  waters  of  the  river 
Haw.  Perhaps,  if  thou  hast  ever  travelled  in  those  parts, 
thou  hast  happened  upon  some  of  my  kindred,  which  are 
very  numerous." 

u  I  have  never,  reverend  sir,  Travelled  in  those  parts," 
said  the  youth,  with  commendable  gravity,  "  but  I  have 
heard  of  the  Cross  family,  which  I  believe,  as  you  say,  to 
be  very  numerous — both  male  and  female." 

"  Yea,  I  have  brothers  and  sisters  an  equal  number ;  I 
have  aunts  and  uncles  a  store,  and  it  has  been  the  blessing 
of  God  so  to  multiply  and  increase  every  member  thereof, 
that  each  of  my  brothers,  in  turn,  hath  a  goodly  flock,  in 
testimony  of  his  favors.  I,  alone,  of  all  my  kindred,  have 
neither  wife  nor  child,  and  I  seem  as  one  set  apart  for 
other  ties,  and  other  purposes." 

"  Ah,  sir,"  returned  the  other,  quickly,  and  with  a  sly 
ness  of  expression  which  escaped  the  direct  and  unsuspect 
ing  mind  of  the  preacher,  "  but  if  you  are  denied  the  bles 
sings  which  are  theirs,  you  have  your  part  in  the  great 
family  of  the  world.  If  you  have  neither  wife  nor  child  of 
your  own  loins,  yet,  I  trust,  you  have  an  abiding  interest 
in  the  wives  and  children  of  all  other  men." 

"  I  were  but  an  unworthy  teacher  of  the  blessed  word, 
had  I  not,"  was  the  simple  answer.  "  Verily,  all  that  I 
teach  are  my  children  ;  there  is  not  one  crying  to  me  for 
help,  to  whom  I  do  not  hasten  with  the  speed  of  a  father 
flying  to  bring  succor  to  his  young.  1  trust  in  God,  that  I 
have  not  made  a  difference  between  them ;  that  I  heed  not 
one  to  the  forfeit  or  suffering  of  the  other ;  and  for  this  im 
partial  spirit  toward  the  flock  intrusted  to  my  charge,  do  I 
pray,  as  well  as  for  the  needful  strength  of  body  and  soul, 
through  which  my  duties  are  to  be  done.  But  thou  hast  not 
yet  spoken  thy  name,  or  my  cars  have  failed  to  receive  it." 


SIMPLICITY   AND   THE   SERPENT.  51 

There  was  some  little  hesitation  on  the  part  of  the  youth 
before  he  answered  this  second  application  ;  and  a  less  un 
heeding  observer  than  his  fellow-traveller,  might  have  no 
ticed  an  increasing  warmth  of  hue  upon  his  cheek,  while  he 
was  uttering  his  reply  : — 

"  I  am  called  Alfred  Stevens,"  he  replied  at  length,  the 
color  increasing  upon  his  cheek  even  after  the  words  were 
spoken.  But  they  were  spoken.  The  falsehood  was  re 
gistered  against  him  beyond  recall,  though,  of  course,  with 
out  startling  the  doubts  or  suspicions  of  his  companion. 

"  Alfred  Stevens ;  there  are  many  Stevenses :  I  have 
known  several  and  sundry.  There  is  a  worthy  family  of 
that  name  by  the  waters  of  the  Dan." 

"  You  will  find  them,  I  suspect,  from  Dan  to  Beershe- 
ba,"  responded  the  youth  with  a  resumption  of  his  former 
levity. 

"  Truly,  it  may  be  so.  The  name  is  of  good  repute. 
But  what  is  thy  calling,  Alfred  Stevens  ?  Methinks  at  thy 
age  thou  shouldst  have  one." 

"  So  I  have,  reverend  sir,"  replied  the  other;  "  my  call 
ing  heretofore  has  been  that  of  the  law.  But  it  likes  me 
not,  and  I  think  soon  to  give  it  up." 

"  Thou  wilt  take  to  some  other  then.  What  other  hast 
thou  chosen ;  or  art  thou  like  those  unhappy  youths,  by  far 
too  many  in  our  blessed  country,  whom  fortune  hath  hurt  by 
her  gifts,  and  beguiled  into  idleness  and  sloth  ?" 

"  Xay,  not  so,  reverend  sir ;  the  gifts  of  fortune  have  been 
somewhat  sparing  in  my  case,  and  I  am  even  now  confer 
ring  with  my  own  thoughts  whether  or  not  to  take  to  school- 
keeping.  Nay,  perhaps,  I  should  incline  to  something  bet 
ter,  if  I  could  succeed  in  persuading  myself  of  my  own 
worthiness  in  a  vocation  which,  more  than  all  others,  de 
mands  a  pure  mind  with  a  becoming  zeal.  The  law  con 
sorts  not  with  my  desires  —  it  teaches  selfishness,  rather 
than  self-denial ;  and  I  have  already  found  that  some  of  its 
duties  demand  the  blindness  and  the  silence  of  that  best 


52  CHARLEMONT. 

teacher  from  within,  the  watchful  and  unsleeping  con 
science." 

"  Thou  hast  said  rightly,  Alfred  Stevens ;  I  have  long 
thought  that  the  profession  of  the  law  hardeneth  the  heart, 
and  blindeth  the  conscience.  Thou  wilt  do  well  to  leave 
it,  as  a  craft  that  leads  to  sin,  and  makes  the  exercise  of 
sin  a  duty ;  and  if,  as  I  rightly  understand  thee,  thou  look- 
cst  to  the  gospel  as  that  higher  vocation  for  which  thy  spirit 
yearneth,  then  would  I  say  to  thee,  arise,  and  gird  up  thy 
loins;  advance  and  falter  not;  —  the  field  is  open,  and 
though  the  victory  brings  thee  no  worldly  profit,  and  but 
little  worldly  honor,  yet  the  reward  is  eternal,  and  the  in 
terest  thereof,  unlike  the  money  which  thou  puttest  out  to 
usury  in  the  hands  of  men,  never  fails  to  be  paid,  at  the  very 
hour  of  its  due,  from  the  unfailing  treasury  of  Heaven. 
Verily,  I  rejoice,  Alfred  Stevens,  that  I  have  met  with  thee 
to-day.  I  had  feared  that  the  day  had  been  lost  to  that 
goodly  labor,  to  which  all  my  days  have  been  given  for 
seventeen  years,  come  the  first  sabbath  in  the  next  Novem 
ber.  But  what  thou  hast  said,  awakens  hope  in  my  soul 
that  such  will  not  be  the  case.  Let  not  my  counsels  fail 
thee,  Alfred;  —  let  thy  zeal  warm;  let  thy  spirit  work 
within  thee,  and  thy  words  kindle,  in  the  service  of  the 
Lord.  How  it  will  rejoice  me  to  see  thee  taking  up  the 
scrip  and  the  staff  and  setting  forth  for  the  wildernesses  of 
the  Mississippi,  of  Arkansas,  and  Texas,  far  beyond ;  — 
bringing  the  wild  man  of  the  frontier,  and  the  red  savage, 
into  the  blessed  fold  and  constant  company  of  the  Lord 
Jesus,  to  whom  all  praise !" 

"  It  were  indeed  a  glorious  service,"  responded  the  young 
stranger  —  whom  we  shall  proceed,  hereafter,  to  designate 
by  the  name  by  which  he  has  called  himself.  He  spoke 
musingly,  and  with  a  gravity  that  was  singularly  inflexible 
—  "  it  were  indeed  a  glorious  service.  Let  me  see,  there 
were  thousands  of  miles  to  traverse  before  one  might  reach 
the  lower  Arkansas ;  and  I  reckon,  Mr.  Cross,  the  roads 


SIMPLICITY   AND   THE   SERPENT.  53 

are  mighty  bad  after  you  pass  the  Mississippi  —  nay,  even 
in  the  Mississippi,  through  a  part  of  which  territory  I  have 
gone  only  this  last  summer,  there  is  a  sad  want  of  cause 
ways,  and  the  bridges  are  exceedingly  out  of  repair.  There 
is  one  section  of  near  a  hundred  miles,  which  lies  between 
the  bluffs  of  Ashibiloxi,  and  the  far  creek  of  Catahoula,  that 
was  a  shame  and  reproach  to  the  country  and  the  people 
thereof.  What,  then,  must  be  the  condition  of  the  Texas 
territory,  beyond  ?  and,  if  I  err  not,  the  Cumanchees  are  a 
race  rather  given  to  destroy  than  to  build  up.  The  chance 
is  that  the  traveller  in  their  country  might  have  to  swim 
his  horse  over  most  of  the  watercourses,  and  where  he  found 
a  bridge,  it  were  perhaps  a  perilous  risk  to  cross  it.  Even 
then  he  might  ride  fifty  miles  a  day,  before  he  should  see 
the  smokes  which  would  be  a  sign  of  supper  that  night." 

"  The  greater  the  glory  —  the  greater  the  glory,  Alfred 
Stevens.  The  toil  and  the  peril,  the  pain  and  the  privation, 
in  a  good  cause,  increase  the  merit  of  the  performance  in 
the  eyes  of  the  Lord.  What  matters  the  roads  and  the 
bridges,  the  length  of  the  way,  or  the  sometimes  lack  of 
those  comforts  of  the  flesh,  which  are  craved  only  at  the 
expense  of  the  spirit,  and  to  the  great  delay  of  our  day  of 
conquest.  These  wants  are  the  infirmities  of  the  human, 
which  dissipate  and  disappear,  the  more  few  they  become, 
and  the  less  pressing  in  their  complaint.  Shake  thyself 
loose  from  them,  Alfred  Stevens,  and  thy  way  henceforth 
is  perfect  freedom." 

"  Alas !  this  is  my  very  weakness,  Mr.  Cross :  —  it  was 
because  of  these  very  infirmities,  that  I  had  doubt  of  my 
own  worthiness  to  take  up  the  better  vocation  which  is  yet 
my  desire.  I  am  sadly  given  to  hunger  and  thirst  toward 
noon  and  evening ;  and  the  travel  of  a  long  day  makes  me 
so  weary  at  night,  that  I  should  say  but  a  hurried  grace  be 
fore  meal,  and  make  an  even  more  hurried  supper  after  it. 
Nay,  I  have  not  yet  been  able  to  divest  myself  of  a  habit 
which  I  acquired  in  my  boyhood:  and  I  need  at  times, 


54-  CHARLEMONT. 

throughout  the  day,  a  mouthful  of  something  stronger  than 
mere  animal  food,  to  sustain  the  fainting  and  feeble  flesh, 
and  keep  my  frame  from  utter  exhaustion.  I  dare  not  go 
upon  the  road,  even  for  the  brief  journey  of  a  single  day, 
without  providing  myself  beforehand  with  a  supply  of  a 
certain  beverage,  such  as  is  even  now  contained  within 
this  vessel,  and  which  is  infallible  against  sinking  of  the 
the  spirits,  fain  tings  of  the  frame,  disordered  nerves,  and 
even  against  flatulence  and  indigestion.  If,  at  any  time, 
thou  shouldst  suffer  from  one  or  the  other  of  these  infirmi 
ties,  Mr.  Cross,  be  sure  there  is  no  better  medicine  for  their 
cure  than  this." 

The  speaker  drew  from  his  bosom  a  little  flask,  such  as 
is  sufficiently  well  known  to  most  western  travellers,  which 
he  held  on  high,  and  which,  to  the  unsuspecting  eyes  of  the 
preacher,  contained  a  couple  of  gills  or  more  of  a  liquid  of 
very  innocent  complexion. 

"  Verily,  Alfred  Stevens,  I  do  myself  suffer  from  some 
of  the  weaknesses  of  which  thou  hast  spoken.  The  sink 
ing  of  the  spirits,  and  the  faintness  of  the  frame,  are  but 
too  often  the  enemies  that  keep  me  back  from  the  plough 
when  I  would  thereto  set  my  hand ;  and  that  same  flatu 
lence — " 

"  A  most  frequent  disorder  in  a  region  where  greens  and 
collards  form  the  largest  dishes  on  the  tables  of  the  people," 
interrupted  Stevens,  but  without  changing  a  muscle  of  his 
countenance. 

"  I  do  believe  as  thou  say'st,  Alfred  Stevens,  that  the 
disorder  comes  in  great  part  from  that  cause,  though,  still, 
1  have  my  doubts  if  it  be  not  a  sort  of  wind-melancholy, 
to  which  people,  who  preach  aloud  are  greatly  subject.  It 
is  in  my  case  almost  always  associated  with  a  sort  of 
hoarseness,  and  the  nerves  of  my  frame  twitch  grievously  at 
the  same  periods.  If  this  medicine  of  thine  be  sovereign 
against  so  cruel  an  affliction,  I  would  crave  of  thee  such 
knowledge  as  would  enable  me  to  get  a  large  supply  of  it, 


SIMPLICITY   AND   THE   SERPENT.  55 

that  I  may  overcome  a  weakness,  which,  as  I  tell  thee, 
oftentimes  impairs  my  ministry,  and  sometimes  makes  me 
wholly  incapable  of  fervent  preaching.  Let  me  smell  of  it, 
I  pray  thee." 

"Nay,  taste  of  it,  sir  —  it  is  just  about  the  time  when  I 
find  it  beneficial  to  partake  of  it,  as  a  medicine  for  my  own 
weakness,  and  I  doubt  not,  it  will  have  a  powerful  effect 
also  upon  you.  A  single  draught  has  been  found  to  relieve 
the  worst  case  of  flatulence  and  colic." 

"  From  colic  too,  I  am  also  a  great  sufferer,"  said  the 
preacher  as  he  took  the  flask  in  his  hand,  and  proceeded  to 
draw  the  stopper. 

"  That  is  also  the  child  of  collards,"  said  Stevens,  as  he 
watched  with  a  quiet  and  unmoved  countenance  the  proceed 
ings  of  his  simple  companion,  who  finding  some  difficulty 
in  drawing  the  cork,  handed  it  back  to  the  youth.  The 
latter,  more  practised,  was  more  successful,  and  now  re 
turned  the  open  bottle  to  the  preacher. 

"  Take  from  it  first,  the  dose  which  relieves  thee,  Alfred 
Stevens,  that  I  may  know  how  much  will  avail  in  my  own 
case ;"  and  he  watched  curiously,  while  Stevens,  applying 
the  flask  to  his  lips,  drew  from  it  a  draught,  which,  in 
western  experience  of  benefits,  would  have  been  accounted 
a  very  moderate  potion.  This  done,  he  handed  it  back 
to  his  companion,  who,  about  to  follow  his  example,  asked 
him : — 

"  And  by  what  name,  Alfred  Stevens,  do  they  call  this 
medicine,  the  goodly  effect  of  which  thou  holdst  to  be  so 
great  ?" 

Stevens  did  not  immediately  reply — not  until  the  preach 
er  had  applied  the  bottle  to  his  inouth,  and  he  could  see 
by  the  distension  of  his  throat,  that  he  had  imbibed  a  taste, 
at  least,  of  the  highly-lauded  medicine.  The  utterance  then, 
of  the  single  word  —  "Brandy"  —  was  productive  of  an 
effect  no  less  ludicrous  in  the  sight  of  the  youth,  than  it 
was  distressing  to  the  mind  of  his  worthy  companion.  The 


56  CHARLEMONT. 

descending  liquor  was  ejected  with  desperate  effort  from  the 
throat  which  it  had  fairly  entered  —  the  flask  flung  from 
his  hands  —  and  with  choking  and  gurgling  accents,  start 
ling  eyes,  and  reddening  visage,  John  Cross  turned  full 
upon  his  fellow-traveller,  vainly  trying  to  repeat,  with  the 
accompanying  horror  of  expression  which  he  felt,  the  single 
spellword,  which  had  produced  an  effect  so  powerful. 

"  Bran — bran  —  brandy !  — Alfred  Stevens !  —  thou  hast 
given  me  poison  —  the  soul's  poison  —  the  devil's  liquor  — 
liquor  distilled  in  the  vessels  of  eternal  sin.  Wherefore 
hast  thou  done  this  ?  Dost  thou  not  know  " 

"Know  —  know  what,  Mr.  Cross?"  replied  Stevens, 
with  all  the  astonishment  which  he  could  possibly  throw 
into  his  air,  as  he  descended  from  his  horse  with  all  hasto 
to  recover  his  flask,  and  save  its  remaining  contents  from 
loss. 

"  Call  me  not  mister  —  call  me  plain  John  Cross,"  replied 
the  preacher  —  in  the  midst  of  a  second  fit  of  choking,  the 
result  of  his  vain  effort  to  disgorge  that  portion  of  the  per 
nicious  liquid  which  had  irretrievably  descended  into  his 
bowels.  With  a  surprise  admirably  affected,  Stevens  ap 
proached  him. 

"  My  dear  sir  —  what  troubles  you  ?  —  what  can  be  the 
matter  ?  What  have  I  done  ?  What  is  it  you  fear  ?" 

"That  infernal  draught — that  liquor  —  I  have  swallow 
ed  of  it  a  mouthful.  I  feel  it  in  me.  The  sin  be  upon  thy 
head,  Alfred  Stevens  —  why  did  you  not  tell  me,  before  I 
drank,  that  it  was  the  soul's  poison  ?  —  the  poison  that  slays 
more  than  the  sword  or  the  pestilence  ;  —  the  liquor  of  the 
devil,  distilled  in  the  vessels  of  sin  —  and  sent  among  men 
for  the  destruction  of  the  soul !  I  feel  it  now  within  me, 
and  it  burns  —  it  burns  like  the  fires  of  damnation.  Is  there 
no  water  nigh  that  I  may  quench  my  thirst?  —  Show  me, 
Alfred  Stevens,  show  me  where  the  cool  waters  lie,  than  I 
may  put  out  these  raging  flames." 

"  There  is  a  branch,  if  I  mistake  not,  just  above  us  on  the 


SIMPLICITY   AND   THE   SERPENT.  57 

road  —  I  think  I  see  it  glistening  among  the  leaves.  Let 
us  ride  toward  it,  sir,  and  it  will  relieve  you." 

"  Ah,  Alfred  Stevens,  why  have  you  served  me  thus  ? 
Why  did  you  not  tell  me  ?" 

Repeated  groans  accompanied  this  apostrophe,  and  mark 
ed  every  step  in  the  progress  of  the  preacher  to  the  little 
rivulet  which  trickled  across  the  road.  John  Cross,  de 
scended  with  the  rapidity  of  one  whose  hope  hangs  upon  a 
minute,  and  dreads  its  loss,  as  equal  to  the  loss  of  life.  He 
straddled  the  stream  and  thrust  his  lips  into  the  water, 
drawing  up  a  quantity  sufficient,  in  the  estimation  of 
Stevens,  to  have  effectually  neutralized  the  entire  contents 
of  his  flask. 

"  Blessed  water !  Blessed  water !  Holiest  beverage  ! 
Thou  art  the  creation  of  the  Lord,  and,  next  to  the  waters 
of  eternal  life,  his  best  gift  to  undiscerning  man.  I  drink 
of  thee,  and  I  am  faint  no  longer.  I  rise  up,  strong  and 
refreshed !  Ah,  my  young  friend,  Alfred  Stevens,  I  trust 
thou  didst  not  mean  me  harm  in  giving  me  that  poisonous 
liquor?" 

"  Far  from  it,  sir,  I  rather  thought  to  do  you  a  great 
benefit." 

"  How  couldst  thou  think  to  do  me  benefit  by  proffering 
such  poison  to  my  lips  ?  nay,  wherefore  dost  thou  thyself 
carry  it  with  thee,  and  why  dost  thou  drink  of  it,  as  if  it 
were  something  not  hurtful  as  well  to  the  body  as  the  soul  ? 
Take  my  counsel,  I  pray  thee,  Alfred  Stevens,  and  cast  it 
behind  thee  for  ever.  Look  not  after  it  when  thou  dost  so, 
with  an  eye  of  regret  lest  thou  forfeit  the  merit  of  thy  self- 
denial.  If  thou  wouldst  pursue  the  higher  vocation  of  the 
brethren,  thou  must  seek  for  the  needful  strength  from  a 
better  and  purer  spirit.  But  what  unhappy  teacher  could 
have  persuaded  thee  to  an  indulgence  which  the  good  men 
of  all  the  churches  agree  to  regard  as  so  deadly  ?" 

"Nay,  Mr.  Cross— — " 

"  John.  CrosSj  J  pray  thee ;  da  I  not  call  tliee  Alfred 

3* 


4 

58  CHARLEMONT. 

Stevens?  —  Mr.  is  a  speech  of  worldly  fashion,  and  be 
comes  not  one  who  should  put  the  world  and  its  fashions 
behind  him." 

Stevens  found  it  more  difficult  to  comply  with  this  one 
requisition  of  the  preacher,  than  to  pursue  a  long  game  of 
artful  and  complex  scheming.  He  evaded  the  difficulty  by 
dropping  the  name  entirely. 

"  You  are  too  severe  upon  brandy,  and  upon  those  who 
use  it.  Nay,  I  am  not  sure,  but  you  do  injustice  to  those 
who  make  it.  So  far  from  its  manufacturers  being  such  as 
you  call  them,  we  have  unquestionable  proof  that  they  are 
very  worthy  people  of  a  distant  but  a  Christian  country ; 
and  surely  you  will  not  deny  that  we  should  find  a  medi 
cine  for  our  hurts,  and  a  remedy  for  our  complaints,  in  a 
liquor  which,  perhaps,  it  might  be  sinful  to  use  as  an  ordi 
nary  beverage.  Doctors,  who  have  the  care  of  human  life, 
and  whose  business  and  desire  it  is  to  preserve  it,  never 
theless  do  sometimes  administer  poisons  to  their  patients, 
which  poisons,  though  deadly  at  other  times,  will,  in  cer 
tain  diseases  and  certain  conditions  of  disease,  prove  of 
only  and  great  good." 

"  Impossible  !  I  believe  it  not !  I  believe  not  in  the  good 
of  brandy.  It  is  hurtful  —  it  is  deadly.  It  has  slain  its 
thousands  and  its  tens  of  thousands  —  it  is  worse  than  the 
sword  and  the  summer  pestilence.  Many  a  man  have  I 
known  to  perish  from  strong  drink.  In  my  own  parts,  upon 
the  river  Haw,  in  North  Carolina  state,  I  have  known  many. 
Nay,  wherefore  should  I  spare  the  truth,  Alfred  Stevens  ? 
—  the  very  father  of  my  own  life,  Ezekiel  Cross,  perished 
miserably  from  this  burning  water  of  sin.  I  will  not  hear 
thee  speak  of  it  again ;  and  if  thou  wouldst  have  me  think 
of  thee  with  favor,  as  one  hopeful  of  the  service  of  the 
brethren,  cast  the  accursed  beverage  of  Satan  from  thy 
hands." 

The  youth,  without  a  word,  deliberately  emptied  the 
contents  of  his  vessel  upon  the  sands,  and  the  garrulous 


SIMPLICITY   AND   THE  SERPENT.  50 

lips  of  the  preacher  poured  forth  as  great  a  flood  of  speech 
in  congratulation,  as  he  had  hitherto  bestowed  in  homily. 
The  good,  unsuspecting  man,  did  not  perceive  that  the 
liquor  thus  thrown  away,  was  very  small  in  quantity,  and 
that  his  companion,  when  the  flask  was  emptied,  quietly 
restored  it  to  his  bosom.  John  Cross  had  obtained  a  seem 
ing  victory,  and  did  not  care  to  examine  its  details. 


60  CHARLEMONT. 


CHAPTER  Y. 

THE   SERPENT   IN   THE   GARDEN. 

THE  concession  made  by  Stevens,  and  which  had  pro 
duced  an  effect  so  gratifying  upon  his  companion,  was  one 
that  involved  no  sacrifices.  The  animal  appetite  of  the 
young  lawyer  was,  in  truth,  comparatively  speaking,  in 
different  to  the  commodity  which  he  discarded  ;  and  even 
had  it  been  otherwise,  still  he  was  one  of  those  selfish,  cool 
and  calculating  persons,  who  seem  by  nature  to  be  perfect 
ly  able  to  subdue  the  claims  of  the  blood,  with  great  ease, 
whenever  any  human  or  social  policy  would  appear  to 
render  it  advisable.  The  greatest  concession  which  he 
made  in  the  transaction,  was  in  his  so  readily  subscribing 
to  that  false  logic  of  the  day,  which  reasons  against  the 
use  of  the  gifts  of  Providence,  because  a  diseased  moral, 
and  a  failing  education,  among  men,  sometimes  result  in 
their  abuse. 

The  imperfections  of  a  mode  of  reasoning  so  utterly 
illogical,  were  as  obvious  to  the  mind  of  the  young  lawyer 
as  to  anybody  else ;  and  the  compliance  which  he  exhibit 
ed  to  a  requisition  which  his  own  sense  readily  assured  him 
was  as  foolish  as  it  was  presumptuous,  was  as  degrading 
to  his  moral  character  from  the  hypocrisy  which  it  de 
clared,  as  it  was  happy  in  reference  to  the  small  policy  by 
which  lie  had  been  governed.  The  unsuspecting  preacher 
did  not  perceive  the  scornful  sneer  which  curled  his  lips 
and  flashed  his  eyes,  by  which  his  own  vanity  still  asserted 


THE   SERPENT   IN    THE   GARDEN.  61 

itself  through  the  whole  proceeding  ;  or  he  would  not  have 
been  so  sure  that  the  mantle  of  grace  which  he  deemed  to 
have  surely  fallen  upon  the  shoulders  of  his  companion, 
was  sufficiently  large  and  sound,  to  cover  the  multitude  of 
sins  which  it  yet  enabled  the  wearer,  so  far,  to  conceal. 
Regarding  him  with  all  the  favor  which  one  is  apt  to  feel 
for  the  person  whom  he  has  plucked  as  a  brand  from  the 
burning,  the  soul  of  John  Cross  warmed  to  the  young  sin 
ner  ;  and  it  required  no  great  effort  of  the  wily  Stevens  to 
win  from  him  the  history,  not  only  of  all  its  own  secrets  and 
secret  hopes  —  for  these  were  of  but  small  value  in  the  eyes 
of  the  worldling  —  but  of  all  those  matters  which  belonged 
to  the  little  village  to  which  they  were  trending,  and  the 
unwritten  lives  of  every  dweller  in  that  happy  community. 

With  all  the  adroit  and  circumspect  art  of  the  lawyer, 
sifting  the  testimony  of  the  unconscious  witness,  and  worm 
ing  from  his  custody  those  minor  details  which  seem  to 
the  uninitiated  so  perfectly  unimportant  to  the  great  matter 
immediately  in  hand  —  Stevens  now  propounded  his  direct 
inquiry,  and  now  dropped  his  seemingly  unconsidered  in 
sinuation,  by  which  he  drew  from  the  preacher  as  much  as 
he  cared  to  know  of  the  rustic  lads  and  lasses  of  Charle- 
mont.  It  does  not  concern  our  narrative  to  render  the 
details  thus  unfolded  to  the  stranger.  And  we  will  con 
tent  ourselves,  as  did  the  younger  of  the  travellers,  who 
placed  himself  with  hearty  good  will  at  the  disposal  of  the 
holy  man. 

"  You  shall  find  for  me  a  place  of  lodging,  Mr.  Cross, 
while  it  shall  suit  me  to  stay  in  Charleniont.  You  have 
a  knowledge  of  the  people,  and  of  the  world,  which  I  pos 
sess  not ;  and  it  will  be  better  that  I  should  give  myself 
up  to  your  guidance.  I  know  that  you  will  not  bring  me 
to  the  dwelling  of  persons  not  in  good  repute ;  and,  per 
haps,  I  need  not  remind  you  that  my  worldly  means  are 
small  —  I  must  be  at  little  charge  wherever  I  stop." 

"  Ah,  Brother  Stevens,  worldly  goods  and  worldly  wealth 


62  .  CHARLEMONT. 

arc  no  more  needed  in  Charlemont,  than  they  are  necessary 
to  the  service  of  the  blessed  Redeemer.  With  an  empty 
scrip  is  thy  service  blest ;  —  God  sees  the  pure  heart  through 
the  threadbare  garment.  I  have  friends  in  Charlemont 
who  will  be  too  happy  to  receive  thee  in  the  name  of  the 
Lord,  without  money  and  without  price." 

The  pride  of  Stevens,  which  had  not  shrunk  from  hypoc 
risy  and  falsehood,  yet  recoiled  at  a  suggestion  which  in 
volved  the  idea  of  his  pecuniary  dependence  upon  strangers, 
and  he  replied  accordingly ;  though  he  still  disguised  his 
objections  under  the  precious  appearance  of  a  becoming 
moral  scruple. 

"  It  will  not  become  me,  Mr.  Cross,  to  burden  the  breth 
ren  of  the  church  for  that  hospitality  which  is  only  due 
to  brethren." 

"  But  thou  art  m  the  way  of  grace  —  the  light  is  shining 
upon  thee  —  the  door  is  open,  and  already  the  voice  of  the 
Bridegroom  is  calling  from  within.  Thou  wilt  become  a 
burning  and  a  shining  light  —  and  the  brethren  of  the 
church  will  rejoice  to  hail  thee  among  its  chosen.  Shall 
they  hold  back  their  hand  when  thou  art  even  on  the  thresh 
old?" 

"  But,  Mr.  Cross " 

"  Call  me  not  Mr.,  I  pray  thee.  Call  me  plain  John 
Cross,  if  it  please  thee  not  yet  to  apply  to  me  that  sweeter 
term  of  loving  kindness  which  the  flock  of  God  are  happy 
to  use  in  speech  one  to  another.  If  thou  wilt  call  me 
Brother  Cross,  my  heart  shall  acknowledge  the  bonds  be 
tween  us,  and  my  tongue  shall  make  answer  to  thine,  in 
like  fashion.  Oh,  Alfred  Stevens,  may  the  light  shine  soon 
upon  thine  eyes,  that  thou  may'st  know  for  a  truth  how 
pleasant  it  is  for  brethren  to  dwell  together  in  the  peace  of 
of  the  Lord,  and  according  to  his  law.  I  will,  with  God's 
grace,  bring  thee  to  this  perfect  knowledge,  for  I  see  the 
way  clear  because  of  the  humility  which  thou  hast  already 
shown,  and  thy  yielding  to  the  counsels  of  the  teacher. 


THE   SERPENT   IN   THE   GARDEN.  63 

As  for  what  thou  sayest  about  charges  to  the  brethren,  let 
that  give  thee  no  concern.  Thou  shalt  lodge  with  old 
Brother  Hinkley,  who  is  the  pattern  of  good  things  and  of 
holiness  in  Gharlemont.  His  house  is  more  like  unto  the 
tent  of  the  patriarch  pitched  upon  the  plain,  than  the  house 
of  the  dweller  among  the  cities.  No  lock  fastens  its  doors 
against  the  stranger  ;  and  the  heart  of  the  aged  man  is  even 
more  open  than  the  doorway  of  his  dwelling.  He  standeth 
in  the  entrance  like  one  looking  out  for  him  that  cometh, 
and  his  first  word  to  the  messenger  of  God,  is  *  welcome  !' 
Thou  shalt  soon  see  the  truth  of  what  I  say  to  thee,  for  even 
now  do  we  look  down  upon  his  house  in  the  very  midst  of 
the  village." 

If  the  scruples  of  Stevens  still  continued  to  urge  him 
against  accepting  the  hospitality  of  the  old  patriarch  of 
whom  he*  had  received  a  description  at  once  just  and  agree 
able,  the  recollection  of  the  village-maiden  whom  he  had 
gone  aside  from  his  direct  path  of  travel,  and  made  some 
QVQTL  greater  departures  from  the  truth,  to  see,  determined 
him  at  length  to  waive  them ;  particularly  when  he  ascer 
tained  from  his  fellow-traveller  that  he  knew  of  nobody  in 
Charlemont  who  accommodated  strangers  for  money. 

Stevens  was  one  of  those  persons  who  watch  the  progress 
of  events,  and  he  resolved,  with  a  mental  reservation — 
that  seems  strange  enough  in  the  case  of  one  who  had 
shown  so  little  reluctance  to  say  and  do  the  thing  which 
he  could  not  maintain-  or  defend — to  avail  himself  of  some 
means  for  requiting,  to  the  uttermost  farthing,  the  landlord, 
to  whose  hospitality  he  might  be  indebted  during  his  stay 
in  Charlemont. 

Such  are  the  contradictions  of  character  which  hourly 
detect  and  describe  the  mere  worldling — the  man  lacking 
in  all  principle,  but  that  whidrfe~«itiservient  to  his  selfish 
policy.  To  accept  money  or  money's  worth  from  a  stran 
ger,  seemed  mean  and  humbling  to  one,  who  did  not  hesi 
tate,  in  the  promotion  of  a  scheme,  which  had  treachery  for 


64  CHARLEMONT. 

its  object,  to  clothe  himself  "in  the  garments  of  deception, 
and  to  make  his  appearance  with  a  lie  festering  upon  his 
lips.  That  evening,  Alfred  Stevens  became,  with  his 
worthier  companion,  an  inmate  of  the  happy  dwelling  of 
William  Hinkley,  the  elder — a  venerable,  white-headed 
father,  whose  whole  life  had  made  him  worthy  of  a  far 
higher  eulogium  than  that  which  John  Cross  had  pronounced 
upon  him. 

The  delight  of  the  family  to  see  their  reverend  teacher 
was  heartfelt  and  unreserved.  A  vigorous  gripe  of  the 
hand,  by  the  elder  dragged  him  into  the  house,  and  a  sen 
tence  of  unusual  length,  from  his  better  half,  assured  him 
of  that  welcome  which  the  blunter  action  of  her  venerable 
husband  had  already  sufficiently  declared.  Nor  was  the 
young  adventurer  who  "accompanied  the  preacher,  suffered 
to  remain  long  unconsidered.  When  John  Cross  -had  told 
them  who  he  was,  or  rather  when  he  had  declared  his 
spiritual  hopes  in  him — which  he  did  with  wonderful 
unction,  in  a  breath — the  reception  of  old  Hinkley,  which 
had  been  hospitable  enough  before,  became  warm  and  be 
nignant  ;  and  Brother  Stevens  already  became  the  word  of 
salutation,  whenever  the  old  people  desired  to  distinguish 
their  younger  guest. 

Brother  Stevens,  it  may  be  said  here,  found  no  difficulty 
in  maintaining  the  character  he  had  assumed.  He  had,  in 
high  degree,  the  great  art  of  the  selfish  man,  and  could, 
when  his  game  required  it,  subdue  with  little  effort,  those 
emotions  and  impulses,  which  the  frank  and  ardent  spirit 
must  speak  out  or  die.  He  went  into  the  house  of  the 
hospitable  old  man,  and  into  the  village  of  Charlemont,  as 
if  he  had  gone  into  the  camp  of  an  enemy.  He  was, 
indeed,  a  spy,  seeking  to  discover,  not  the  poverty,  but  the 
richness  of  the  land.  His  mind,  therefore,  was  like  one 
who  has  clothed  himself  in  armor,  placed  himself  in 
waiting  for  the  foe,  and  set  all  his  sentinels  on  the  watch. 
His  caution  measured  every  word  ere  it  was  spoken,  every 


THE   SERPENT   IN   THE   GARDEN.  65 

look  ere  it  was  shown,  every  movement  ere  he  suffered  his 
limbs  to  make  it.  The  muscles  of  his  face,  were  each  put 
under  curb  and  chain -^  the  smiles  of  the  lip  and  the 
glances  of  the  eyes,  were  all  subdued  to  precision,  and 
permitted  to  go  forth,  only  under  special  guard  and  restric 
tion.  In  tone,  look,  and  manner,  he  strove  as  nearly  as  he 
might,  to  resemble  the  worthy  but  simple-minded  man,  who 
had  so  readily  found  a  worthy  adherent  and  pupil  in  him ; 
and  his  efforts  at  deception  might  be  held  to  be  sufficiently 
successful,  if  the  frank  confiding  faith  of  the  aged  heads  of 
the  Hinkley  family  be  the  fitting  test  of  his  experiment. 

"With  them  he  was  soon  perfectly  at  home — his  own  car 
riage  seemed  to  them  wondrously  becoming,  and  the  ap 
probation  of  John  Cross  was  of  itself  conclusive.  The 
preacher  was  the  oracle  of  the  family,  all  of  whom  were 
only  too  happy  of  his  favor  not  to  make  large  efforts  to  be 
pleased  with  those  he  brought ;  and  in  a  little  while,  sitting 
about  the  friendly  fireside,  the  whole  party  had  become  as 
sociable  as  if  they  had  been  "  hail  fellow !  well  met,"  a 
thousand  years.  Two  young  girls,  children  of  a  relative, 
and  nieces  of  the  venerable  elder,  had  already  perched 
themselves  upon  the  knee  of  the  stranger,  and  strove  at 
moments  over  his  neck  and  shoulder,  without  heeding  the 
occasional  sugary  reproof  of  Dame  Hinkley,  which  bade 
them  "  let  Brother  Stevens  be  ;"  and,  already  had  Brother 
Stevens  himself,  ventured  upon  the  use  of  sundry  grave 
saws  from  the  holy  volume,  the  fruit  of  early  reading  and 
a  retentive  memory,  which  not  a  little  helped  to  maintain 
his  novel  pretensions  in  the  mind  of  the  brethren,  and  the 
worthy  teacher,  John  Cross  himself.  All  things  promised 
a  long  duration  to  a  friendship  suddenly  begun ;  when 
William  Hinkley,  the  younger,  a  youth  already  introduced 
to  the  reader,  made  his  appearance  within  the  happy  circle. 
He  wore  a  different  aspect  from  all  the  rest  as  he  recog 
nised  in  the  person  of  Brother  Stevens,  the  handsome 
stranger,  his  antipathy  to  whom,  at  a  first  glance,  months 


6t3  CHARLEMONT. 

before,  seemed  almost  to  have  the  character  of  a  warning 
instinct.  A  nearer  glance  did  not  serve  to  lessen  his  hos 
tility. 

Our  traveller  was  to  the  eye  of  a  lover,  one,  indeed,  who 
promised  dangerous  rivalship,  and  an  intrepid  air  of  con 
fidence  which,  even  his  assumed  character  could  not  enable 
him  to  disguise  from  the  searching  eyes  of  jealousy,  con 
tributed  to  strengthen  the  dislike  of  the  youth  for  a  person 
who  seemed  so  perfectly  sure  of  his  ground.  Still,  William 
Hinkley  behaved  as  a  civil  and  well-bred  youth  might  be 
expected  to  behave.  He  did  not  suffer  his  antipathy  to  put 
on  the  aspect  of  rudeness ;  he  was  grave  and  cold,  but  re 
spectful  ;  and  though  he  did  not  "  be-brother"  the  stranger, 
he  yet  studiously  subdued  his  tones  to  mildness,  when  it  be 
came  necessary,  in  the  course  of  the  evening  meal,  that  he 
should  address  him.  Few  words,  however,  were  exchanged 
between  the  parties.  If  Hinkley  beheld  an  enemy  to  his 
heart's  hopes  in  Stevens,  the  latter  was  sufficiently  well- 
read  in  the  human  heart  to  discover  quite  as  soon,  that  the 
rustic  was  prepared  to  see  in  himself  any  character  but 
that  of  a  friend.  The  unwillingness  with  which  Hinkley 
heard  his  suggestions — the  absence  of  all  freedom  and 
ease  in  his  deportment,  toward  himself,  so  different  from 
the  manner  of  the  youth  when  speaking  or  listening  to  all 
other  persons;  the  occasional  gleam  of  jealous  inquiry  and 
doubt  within  his  eye,  and  the  utter  lack  of  all  enthusiasm 
and  warmth  in  his  tones  while  he  spoke  to  him,  satisfied 
Stevens,  that  he,  of  all  the  household  of  his  hospitable 
entertainers,  if  not  actually  suspicious  of  his  true  characr 
tor,  was  the  one  whose  suspicions  were  those  most  easily 
to  be  awakened,  and  who  of  all  others,  needed  most  to  be 
guarded  against.  It  will  not  increase  our  estimate  of  the 
wisdom  of  the  stranger,  to  learn  that,  with  this  conviction, 
lie  should  yet  arrogate  to  himself  a  tone  of  superiority, 
while  speaking  in  hearing  of  the  youth. 

This  was  shown  in  a  manner  that  was  particularly  galling 


THE   SERPENT   IN   THE   GARDEN.  67 

to  a  higli-spirited  youth,  and  one  whose  prejudices  were 
already  awakened  against  the  speaker.  It  was  that  of  a 
paternal  and  patronizing  senior,  whose  very  gentleness  and 
benignity  of  look  and  accent,  seem  to  arise  from  a  full  con 
viction  of  the  vast  difference  which  exists  between  himself 
and  his  hearer.  An  indignity  like  this,  which  can  not  be 
resented,  is  one  which  the  young  mind  feels  always  most 
anxious  to  resent.  The  very  difficulties  in  the  way  of 
doing  so,  stimulates  the  desire.  Such  was  the  feeling  of 
William  Hinklcy.  With  such  a  feeling  it  may  be  con 
jectured  that  opportunity  was  not  long  wanting,  or  might 
soon  be  made,  for  giving  utterance  to  the  suppressed  fires 
of  anger  which  were  struggling  in  his  heart.  Days  and 
weeks  may  elapse,  but  the  antipathy  will  declare  itself  at 
last.  It  would  be  easier  to  lock  up  the  mountain  torrent 
after  the  breath  of  the  tornado  has  torn  away  its  rocky 
seals,  than  to  stifle  in  the  heart  that  hates,  because  of  its 
love,  the  fierce  fury  which  these  united  passions  enkindle 
within  it. 

In  the  first  hour  of  their  first  interview,  William  Hinkley 
and  Alfred  Stevens  felt  that  they  were  mutual  foes.  In 
that  little  space  of  time,  the  former  had  but  one  thought, 
which,  though  it  changed  its  aspect  with  each  progressive 
moment,  never  for  an  instant  changed  its  character.  He 
panted  with  the  hope  of  redressing  himself  for  wrongs 
which  he  could  not  name;  for  injuries ^and  indignities 
which  he  knew  not  how  to  describe.  Stevens  had  neither 
done  nor  said  anything  which  might  be  construed  into  an 
offence.  And  yet,  nobody  knew  better  than  Stevens  that 
he  had  been  offensive.  The  worthy  John  Cross,  in  the 
simplicity  of  his  nature,  never  dreamed  of  this,  but,  on  the 
contrary,  when  our  adventurer  dilated  in  the  fatherly  man 
ner  already  adverted  to,  he  looked  upon  himself  as  particu 
larly  favored  of  Heaven,  in  falling  upon  a  youth,  as  a  pupil, 
of  such  unctuous  moral  delivery. 

"  Surely,"  he  mused  internally,  "  this  is  a  becoming  in- 


08  CHARLEMONT. 

strument  which  I  have  found,  for  the  prosecution  of  the 
good  work.  He  will  bear  the  word  like  one  sent  forth  to 
conquer.  He  will  bind  and  loose  with  a  strong  hand.  He 
will  work  wondrous  things  !" 

Not  unlike  these  were  the  calculations  of  old  Hinkley, 
as  he  hearkened  to  the  reverend  reasonings  and  the  solemn 
commonplaces  of  the  stranger.  Stevens,  like  most  recent 
converts,  was  the  most  uncompromising  enemy  of  those 
sins  from  which  he  professed  to  have  achieved  with  diffi 
culty  his  own  narrow  escape ;  and  finding,  from  the  atten 
tive  ear  of  his  audience,  that  he  had  made  a  favorable  im 
pression,  he  proceeded  to  manufacture  for  them  his  re 
ligious  experience ;  an  art  which  his  general  information, 
and  knowledge  of  the  world  enabled  him  to  perform  with 
out  much  difficulty. 

But  the  puritan  declamation  which  pleased  all  the  rest, 
disgusted  young  Hinkley,  and  increased  his  dislike  for  the 
declaimer.  There  was  too  much  of  the  worldling  in  the 
looks,  dress,  air,  and  manner  of  Stevens,  to  satisfy  the  rus 
tic  of  his  sincerity.  Something  of  his  doubts  had  their 
source,  without  question,  in  the  antipathy  which  he  had 
formed  against  him ;  but  William  Hinkley  was  not  without 
keen,  quick,  observing,  and  justly  discriminating  faculties, 
and  much  of  his  conclusions  were  the  due  consequence  of  a 
correct  estimate  of  the  peculiarities  which  we  have  named. 
Stevens,  he  perceived,  declared  his  experiences  of  religion, 
with  the  air  of  one  who  expects  the  congratulations  of  his 
audience.  The  humility  which  thinks  only  of  the  acquisi 
tion  itself,  as  the  very  perfection  of  human  conquest,  was 
wanting  equally  to  his  language  and  deportment.  The  very 
details  which  he  gave,  were  ostentatious  ;  and  the  gracious 
smiles  which  covered  his  lips  as  he  concluded,  were  those 
of  the  self-complacent  person,  who  feels  that  he  has  just 
been  saying  those  good  things,  which,  of  necessity,  must 
command  the  applause  of  his  hearers. 

A  decent  pause  of  half  an  hour  after  the  supper  was  fin- 


THE   SERPENT   IN    THE   GARDEN.  69 

ished,  which  was  spent  by  the  jealous  youth  in  utter  silence, 
and  he  then  rose  abruptly  and  hurried  from  the  apartment, 
leaving  the  field  entirely  to  his  opponent.  He  proceeded  to 
the  house  of  his  neighbor  and  cousin,  Ned  Ilinkley,  but 
without  any  hope  of  receiving  comfort  from  his  communion. 
Ned  was  a  lively,  thoughtless,  light-hearted  son  of  the  soil, 
who  was  very  slow  to  understand  sorrows  of  any  kind  ;  and 
least  of  all,  those  which  lie  in  the  fancy  of  a  dreaming  and 
a  doubtful  lover.  At  this  moment,  when  the  possession  of 
a  new  violin  absorbed  all  his  thoughts,  his  mind  was  partic 
ularly  obtuse  on  the  subject  of  sentimental  grievances,  and 
the  almost  voluptuous  delight  which  filled  his  eyes  when 
William  entered  his  chamber,  entirely  prevented  him  from 
seeing  the  heavy  shadow  which  overhung  the  brows  of  the 
latter. 

"  What,  back  again,  William  ?  Why,  you're  as  change 
able  as  .the  last  suit  of  a  green  lizard.  When  I  asked  you 
to  stop,  and  hear  me  play  '  Cross-possum,'  and  '  Criss-cross,' 
off  you  went  without  giving  me  a  civil  answer.  I've  a 
mind  now  to  put  up  the  fiddle  and  send  your  ears  to  bed 
supperless.  How  would  you  like  that,  old  fellow?  but 
I'll  be  good-natured.  You  shall  have  it,  though  you  don't 
deserve  it :  she's  in  prime  tune,  and  the  tones — only  hear 
that,  Bill — there.  Isn't  she  delicious  ?" 

And  as  the  inconsiderate  cousin  poured  out  his  warmest 
eulogy  of  the  favorite  instrument,  his  right  hand  flourished 
the  bow  in  air,  in  a  style  that  would  have  cheered  the  heart 
of  Jean  Crapaud  himself,  and  then  brought  it  over  the  cat 
gut  in  a  grand  crash,  that  sounded  as  harshly  in  the  ears  of 
his  morbid  visiter,  as  if  the  two  worlds  had  suddenly  come 
together  with  stearn-engine  velocity.  He  clapped  his  hands 
upon  the  invaded  organs,  and  with  something  like  horror  in 
his  voice,  cried  out  his  expostulations. 

u  For  heaven's  sake,  Ned,  don't  stun  a  body  with  your 
noise." 

"  Noise  !     Did  you  say  noise,  Bill  Hinkley — noise  ?" 


70  CHARLEMONT. 

"  Yes,  noise,"  answered  the  other  with  some  peevish 
ness  in  his  accents.  The  violinist  looked  at  him  incredu 
lously,  while  he  suffered  the  point  of  the  fiddle-bow  to  sink 
on  a  line  with  the  floor  ;  then,  after  a  moment's  pause,  he 
approached  his  companion,  wearing  in  his  face  the  while,  an 
appearance  of  the  most  grave  inquiry,  and  when  sufficiently 
nigh,  he  suddenly  brought  the  bow  over  the  strings  of  the 
instrument,  immediately  in  William's  ears,  with  a  sharp 
and  emphatic  movement,  producing  an  effect  to  which  the 
former  annoying  crash,  might  well  have  been  thought  a  very 
gentle  effusion.  This  was  followed  by  an  uncontrollable 
burst  of  laughter  from  the  merry  lips  of  the  musician. 

"There  — that's  what  I  call  a  noise,  Bill.  Sweet  Sail 
can  make  a  noise  when  I  worry  her  into  it ;  she's  just  like 
other  women  in  that  respect ;  she'll  be  sure  to  squall  out  if 
you  don't  touch  her  just  in  the  -right  quarter.  But  the  first 
time  she  did  not  go  amiss,  and  as  for  stunning  you — but 
what's  the  matter  ?  Where's  the  wind  now  ?" 

"  Nothing — only  I  don't  want  to  be  deafened  with  such 
a  clatter." 

"  Something's  wrong,  Bill,  I  know  it.  You  look  now  for 
all  the  world  like  a  bottle  of  sour  sop,  with  the  cork  out, 
and  ready  to  boil  over. '  As  for  Sail  making  a  noise  the 
first  time,  that's  all  a  notion,  and  a  very  strange  one.  She 
was  as  sweet-spoken  then  as  she  was  when  you  left  me  be 
fore  supper.  The  last  time,  I  confess,  I  made  her  squall 
out  on  purpose.  But  what  of  that  ?  you  are  not  the  man  to 
get  angry  with  a  little  fun  !" 

"  No,  I'm  not  angry  with  you,  Ned — I  am  not  angry  with 
anybody ;  but  just  now,  I  would  rather  not  hear  the  fiddle. 
Put  it  up." 

"  There !"  said  the  other  good-naturedly,  as  he  placed 
the  favorite  instrument  in  its  immemorial  case  in  the  corner. 
"  There ;  and  now  Bill,  untie  the  pack,  and  let's  see  the 
sort  of  wolf-cubs  you've  got  to  carry  ;  for  there's  no  two 
horns  to  a  wild  bull,  if  something  hasn't  gored  you  to-night." 


THE   SERPEXT    IX   THE    GARDEN.  71 

"  You're  mistaken,  Ned — quite  mistaken — quite  !" 

"  Deuse  a  bit !  I  know  you  too  well,  Bill  Hinkley,  so 
it's  no  use  to  bush  up  now.  Out  with  it,  and  don't  be 
sparing,  and  if  there's  any  harm  to  come,  I'm  here,  just  as 
ready  to  risk  a  cracked  crown  for  you,  as  if  the  trouble  was 
my  own.  I'd  rather  fiddle  than  fight,  it's  true  ;  but  when 
there's  any  need  for  it,  you  know  I  can  do  one  just  as  well 
as  the  other ;  and  can  go  to  it  with  just  as  much  good  hu 
mor.  So  show  us  the  quarrel." 

"  There's  no  quarrel,  Ned,"  said  the  other,  softened  by 
the  frank  and  ready  feeling  which  his  companion  showed  ; 
"  but  I'm  very  foolish  in  some  things,  and  don't  know  how 
it  is.  I'm  not  apt  to  take  dislikes,  but  there's  a  man  come 
to  our  house  with  John  Cross,  this  evening,  that  I  somehow 
dislike  very  much." 

"  A  man  !  What's  he  like  ?  Anything  like  Joe  Richards  ? 
That  was  a  fellow  that  I  hated  mightily.  I  never  longed 
to  lick  any  man  but  Joe  Richards,  and  him  I  longed  to  lick 
three  times,  though  you  know  I  never  got  at  him  more  than 
twice.  It's  a  great  pity  he  got  drowned,  for  I  owe  him  a- 
third  licking,  and  don't  feel  altogether  right,  since  I  know 
no  sort  of  way  to  pay  it.  But  if  this  man's  anything  like 
Joe,  it  may  be  just  the  same  if  I  give  it  to  him.  Now " 

"  He's  nothing  like  Richards,"  said  the  other.  "  He's 
a  taller  and  better-looking  man." 

"  If  he's  nothing  like  Joe,  what  do  you  want  to  lick  him 
for  ?"  said  the  single-minded  musician,  with  a  surprise  in 
his  manner,  which  was  mingled  with  something  like  rebuke. 

"  I  have  expressed  no  such  wish,  Ned ;  you  are  too  hasty ; 
and  if  I  did  wish  to  whip  him,  I  don't  think  I  should  trouble 
you  or  any  man  to  help  me.  If  I  could  not  do  it  myself,  I 
should  give  it  up  as  a  bad  job,  without  calling  in  assistants." 

"Oh,  you're  a  spunky  fellow  —  a  real  colt  for  hard 
riding,"  retorted  the  other  with  a  good-natured  mock  in 
his  tones  and  looks  ;  "  but  if  you  don't  want  to  lick  the  fel 
low,  how  conies  it  you  dislike  him  ?  It  seems  to  me  if  a 


72  CHARLEMONT. 

chap  behaved  so  as  to  make  me  dislike  him,  it  wouldn't  be  an 
easy  matter  to  keep  my  hands  off  him.  I'd  teacli  him  how 
to  put  me  into  a  bad  humor,  or  I'd  never  touch  violin  again.'' 

"  This  man's  a  parson,  I  believe." 

"  A  parson — that's  a  difficulty.  It  is  not  altogether  right 
to  lick  parsons,  because  they're  not  counted  fighting  people. 
But  there's  a  mighty  many  on  'em  that  licking  would  help. 
No  wonder  you  dislike  the  fellow,  though  if  he  comes  with 
John  Cross,  he  shouldn't  be  altogether  so  bad.  Now,  John 
Cross  is  a  good  man.  He's  good,  and  he's  good-humored. 
He  don't  try  to  set  people's  teeth  on  edge  against  all  the 
pleasant  things  of  this  world,  and  he  can  laugh,  and  talk, 
and  sing,  like  other  people.  Many's  the  time  he's  asked 
me,  of  his  own  mouth,  to  play  the  violin  ;  and  I've  seen  his 
little  eyes  caper  again,  when  sweet  Sail  talked  out  her  fun 
niest.  If  it  was  not  so  late,  I'd  go  over  now  and  give  him 
a  reel  or  two,  and  then  I  could  take  a  look  at  this  strange 
chap,  that's  set  your  grinders  against  each  other." 

The  fiddler  looked  earnestly  at  the  instrument  in  the  cor 
ner,  his  features  plainly  denoting  his  anxiety  to  resume  the 
occupation  which  his  friends  coming  had  so  inopportunely 
interrupted.  William  Hinkley  saw  the  looks  of  his  cousin, 
and  divined  the  cause. 

"You  shall  play  for  me,  ^Ned,"  he  remarked;  "you 
shall  give  me  that  old  highland-reel  that  you  learned  from 
Scotch  Geordie.  It  will  put  me  out  of  my  bad  humor,  I 
think,  and  we  can  go  to  bed  quietly.  I've  come  to  sleep 
with  you  to-night." 

"  You're  a  good  fellow,  Bill ;  I  knew  that  you  couldn't 
stand  it  long,  if  Sweet  Sail  kept  a  still  tongue  in  her  head. 
That  reel's  the  very  thing  to  drive  away  bad  humors,  though 
there  's  another  that  I  learnt  from  John  Blodget,  the  boat 
man,  that  sounds  to  me  the  merriest  and  comicalest  thing 

in  the  world.  It  goes ,"  and  here  the  fiddle  was  put 

in  requisition  to  produce  the  required  sounds :  and  having 
got  carte  blanche,  our  enthusiastic  performer,  without  wear- 


THE   SERPENT   IN   THE   GARDEN.  73 

iness,  went  through  his  whole  collection,  without  once  per 
ceiving  that  his  comical  and  merry  tunes  had  entirely  failed 
to  change  the  grave,  and  even  gloomy  expression  which 
still  mantled  the  face  of  his  companion.  It  was  only  when 
in  his  exhaustion  he  set  down  the  instrument,  that  he  became 
conscious  of  William  Hinkley's  continued  discomposure. 

"  Why,  Bill,  the  trouble  has  given  you  a  bigger  bite 
than  I  thought  for.  What  words  did  you  have  with  the 
preacher  ?" 

"  None :  I  don't  know  that  he  is  a  preacher.  He  speaks 
only  as  if  he  was  trying  to  become  one." 

"  What,  you  hadn't  any  difference  —  no  quarrel  ?" 

"  None." 

"  And  it's  only  to-night  that  you've  seen  him  for  the  first 
time  ?" 

A  flush  passed  over  the  grave  features  of  William  Hink- 
ley  as  he  heard  this  question,  and  it  was  with  a  hesitating 
manner  and  faltering  accents,  that  he  contrived  to  tell  his 
cousin  of  the  brief  glimpse  which  he  had  of  the  same  stran 
ger  several  months  before,  on  that  occasion,  when,  in  the 
emotion  of  Margaret  Cooper,  replying  to  a  similar  question, 
he  first  felt  the  incipient  seed  of  jealousy  planted  within 
his  bosom.  But  this  latter  incident  he  forbore  to  reveal  to 
the  inquirer ;  and  Ned  Hinkley,  though  certainly  endowed 
by  nature  with  sufficient  skill  to  draw  forth  the  very  soul 
of  music  from  the  instrument  on  which  he  played,  had  no 
similar  power  upon  the  secret  soul  of  the  person  whom  he 
partially  examined. 

"  But  'tis  very  strange  how  you  should  take  offence  at 
a  man  you've  seen  so  little ;  though  I  have  heard  before 
this  of  people  taking  dislikes  at  other  people  the  first  mo 
ment  they  set  eyes  on  'em.  Now,  I'm  not  a  person  of  that 
sort,  unless  it  was  in  the  case  of  Joe  Richards ;  and  him 
I  took  a  sort  of  grudge  at  from  the  first  beginning.  But 
even  then  there  was  a  sort  of  reason  for  it ;  for,  at  the  be 
ginning,  when  Joe  came  down  upon  us  here  in  Charle- 

4 


74  CHARLEMONT. 

mont,  he  was  for  riding  over  people's  necks,  without  so 
much  as  asking,  <  by  your  leave.'  He  had  a  way  about  him 
that  vexed  me,  though  we  did  not  change  a  word." 

"  And  it's  that  very  way  that  this  person  has  that  I  don't 
like,"  said  William  Hinkley.  "  He  talks  as  if  he  made 
you,  and  when  you  talk,  he  smiles  as  if  he  thought  you 
were  the  very  worst  work  that  ever  went  out  of  his  hands. 
Then,  if  he  has  to  say  anything,  be  it  ever  so  trifling,  he 
says  it  just  as  if  he  was  telling  you  that  the  world  was  to 
come  to  an  end  the  day  after  to-morrow." 

"  Just  the  same  with  Joe  Richards.  I  never  could  get 
at  him  but  twice ;  though  I  give  him  then  a  mighty  smart 
hammering ;  and  if  he  hadn't  got  under  the  broadhorn  and 
got  drowned  ;  —  but  this  fellow  ?" 

"  You'll  see  him  at  church  to-morrow.  I  shouldn't  won 
der  if  he  preaches ;  for  John  Cross  was  at  him  about  it  be 
fore  I  came  away.  What's  worse,  the  old  man's  been  ask 
ing  him  to  live  with  us." 

"  What,  here  in  Charlemont  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"  I'll  be  sure  to  lick  him  then,  if  he's  anything  like  Joe 
Richards.  But  what's  to  make  him  live  in  Charlemont? 
Is  he  to  be  a  preacher  for  us  ?" 

"  Perhaps  so,  but  I  couldn't  understand  all,  for  I  came 
in  while  they  were  at  it,  and  left  home  before  they  were 
done.  I'm  sure  if  he  stays  there  I  shall  not.  I  shall  leave 
home,  for  I  really  dislike  to  meet  him." 

"  You  shall  stay  with  me,  Bill,  and  we'll  have  Sail  at 
all  hours,"  was  the  hearty  speech  of  the  cousin,  as  he 
threw  his  arms  around  the  neck  of  his  morose  companion, 
and  dragged  him  gently  toward  the  adjoining  apartment, 
which  formed  his  chamber.  "  To-morrow,"  he  continued, 
"  as  you  say,  we'll  see  this  chap,  and  if  he's  anything  like 
Joe  Richards — "  The  doubled  fist  of  the  speaker,  and 
his  threatening  visage,  completed  the  sentence  with  which 
this  present  conference  and  chapter  may  very  well  conclude. 


THE   TOAD    ON   THE   ALTAK.  75 


CHAPTER   VI. 

THE   TOAD    ON   THE   ALTAR. 

THE  next  day  was  the  sabbath.  John  Cross  had  timed 
his  arrival  at  the  village  with  a  due  reference  to  his  duties, 
and  after  a  minute  calculation  of  days  and  distances,  so  that 
his  spiritual  manna  might  be  distributed  in  equal  propor 
tions  among  his  hungering  flock.  His  arrival  made  itself 
felt  accordingly,  not  simply  in  Charlemont,  but  throughout 
the  surrounding  country  for  a  circuit  of  ten  miles  or  more. 
There  was  a  large  and  hopeful  gathering  of  all  sorts  and 
sexes,  white  and  black,  old  and  young.  Charlemont  had  a 
very  pretty  little  church  of  its  own  ;  but  one,  and  that,  with 
more  true  Christianity  than  is  found  commonly  in  this  world 
of  pretence  and  little  tolerance,  was  open  to  preachers  of 
all  denominations.  The  word  of  God,  among  these  simple 
folks,  was  quite  too  important  to  make  them  scruple  at  re 
ceiving  it  from  the  lips  of  either  Geneva,  Rome,  or  Canter 
bury.  The  church  stood  out  among  the  hills  at  a  little  dis 
tance  from,  but  in  sight  of  the  village ;  a  small,  neat  Grecian- 
like  temple,  glimmering  white  and  saintlike  through  solemn- 
yisaged  groves,  and  gaudy  green  foliage.  The  old  trees 
about  it  were  all  kept  neatly  trimmed,  the  brush  pruned 
away  and  cleared  up,  and  a  smooth  sweet  sward,  lawnlike, 
surrounded  it,  such  as  children  love  to  skip  and  scramble 
over,  and  older  children  rest  at  length  upon,  in  pairs,  talk 
ing  over  their  sweet  silly  affections. 

Surrounded  by  an  admiring  crowd,  each  of  whom  had  his 


76  CHARLEMONT. 

respectful  salutation,  we  see  our  friend  John  Cross  toward 
noon  approaching  the  sacred  dwelling.  Truly  he  was  the 
most  simple,  fraternal  of  all  God's  creatures.  He  had  a 
good  word  for  this,  an  affectionate  inquiry  for  that,  a  be 
nevolent  smile,  and  a  kind  pressure  of  the  hand  for  all. 
He  was  a  man  to  do  good,  for  everybody  saw  that  he 
thought  for  others  before  himself,  and  sincerity  and  earnest 
ness  constitute,  with  the  necessary  degree  of  talent,  the 
grand  secrets  for  making  successful  teachers  in  every  de 
partment. 

Though  a  simple,  unsophisticated,  unsuspecting  creature, 
John  Cross  was  a  man  of  very  excellent  natural  endow 
ments.  He  chose  for  his  text  a  passage  of  the  Scriptures 
which  admitted  of  a  direct  practical  application  to  the  con 
cerns  of  the  people,  their  daily  wants,  their  pressing  inter 
ests,  moral,  human,  and  social.  He  was  thus  enabled  to 
preach  a  discourse  which  sent  home  many  of  his  congrega 
tion  much  wiser  than  they  came,  if  only  in  reference  to  their 
homely  duties  of  farmstead  and  family.  John  Cross  was 
none  of  those  sorry  and  self-constituted  representatives  of 
our  eternal  interests,  who  deluge  us  with  a  vain,  worthless 
declamation,  proving  that  virtue  is  a  very  good  thing,  reli 
gion  a  very  commendable  virtue,  and  a  liberal  contribution 
to  the  church-box  at  the  close  of  the  sermon  one  of  the  most 
decided  proofs  that  we  have  this  virtue  in  perfection.  Nay, 
it  is  somewhat  doubtful,  indeed,  if  he  ever  once  alluded  to 
the  state  of  his  own  scrip  and  the  treasury  of  the  church. 
His  faith,  sincere,  spontaneous,  ardent,  left  him  in  very 
little  doubt  that  the  Lord  will  provide,  for  is  he  not  called 
"  JEHOVAH- JIREH  ?"  —  and  his  faith  was  strengthened  and 
confirmed  by  the  experience  of  his  whole  life.  But  then 
John  Cross  had  few  wants  —  few,  almost  none  !  In  this  re 
spect  he  resembled  the  first  apostles.  The  necessities  of 
life  once  cared  for,  never  was  mortal  man  more  thoroughly 
independent  of  the  world.  He  was  not  one  of  those  fine 
preachers  who,  dealing  out  counsels  of  self-denial,  in  grave 


THE   TOAD    ON   THE   ALTAR.  77 

saws  and  solemn  maxims,  with  wondrous  grim  visage  and  a 
most  slow,  lugubrious  shaking  of  the  head —  are  yet  always 
religiously  careful  to  secure  the  warmest  seat  by  the  fire 
side,  and  the  best  buttered  bun  on  table.  He  taught  no 
doctrine  which  he  did  not  practice ;  and  as  for  considera 
tion  —  that  test  at  once  of  the  religionist  and  the  gentle 
man  —  he  was  as  humbly  solicitous  of  the  claims  and  feelings 
of  others,  as  the  lovely  and  lowly  child  to  whom  reverence 
lias  been  well  taught  as  the  true  beginning,  equally  of  po 
liteness  and  religion. 

Before  going  into  church  he  urged  his  protege,  Stevens, 
to  consent  to  share  in  the  ceremonies  of  the  service  as  a 
layman  ;  but  there  was  still  some  saving  virtue  in  the  young 
man,  which  made  him  resolute  in  refusing  to  do  so.  Per 
haps,  his  refusal  was  dictated  by  a  policy  like  that  which 
had  governed  him  so  far  already ;  which  made  him  reluc 
tant  to  commit  himself  to  a  degree  which  might  increase 
very  much  the  hazards  of  detection.  He  feared,  indeed, 
the  restraints  which  the  unequivocal  adoption  of  the  pro 
fession  would  impose  upon  him,  fettering  somewhat  the 
freedom  of  his  intercourse  with  the  young  of  both  sexes, 
and,  consequently,  opposing  an  almost  insurmountable 
barrier  to  the  prevailing  object  which  had  brought  him  to 
the  village.  Whatever  may  have  been  the  feelings  or  mo 
tives  which  governed  him,  they,  at  least,  saved  him  from 
an  act  which  would  have  grievously  aggravated  his  already 
large  offence  against  truth  and  propriety.  He  declined, 
in  language  of  the  old  hypocrisy.  He  did  not  feel  justified 
in  taking  up  the  cross — he  felt  that  he  was  not  yet  worthy ; 
and,  among  the  members  of  a  church,  which  takes  largely 
into  account  the  momentary  impulses  and  impressions  of 
the  professor,  the  plea  was  considered  a  sufficiently  legiti 
mate  one. 

But  though  Stevens  forbore  to  commit  himself  openly  in 
the  cause  which  he  professed  a  desire  to  espouse,  he  was 
yet  sufficiently  hoedful  to  maintain  all  those  externals  of 


78  CHARLEMONT. 

devotion  which  a  serious  believer  would  be  apt  to  exhibit. 
He  could  be  a  good  actor  of  a  part,  and  in  this  lay  his  best 
talent.  He  had  that  saving  wisdom  of  the  worldling, 
which  is  too  often  estimated  beyond  its  worth,  called  cun 
ning;  and  the  frequent  successes  of  which  produces  that 
worst  of  all  the  diseases  that  ever  impaired  the  value  of 
true  greatness  —  conceit.  Alfred  Stevens  fancied  that  he 
could  do  everything,  and  this  fancy  produced  in  him  the 
appearance  of  a  courage  which  his  moral  nature  never  pos 
sessed.  He  had  the  audacity  which  results  from  presump 
tion,  not  the  wholesome  strength  which  comes  from  the 
conscious  possession  of  a  right  purpose.  But  a  truce  to 
our  metaphysics. 

Never  did  saint  wear  the  aspect  of  such  supernatural 
devotion.  He  knelt  with  the  first,  groaned  audibly  at  in 
tervals,  and  when  his  face  became  visible,  his  eyes  were 
strained  in  upward  glances,  so  that  the  spectator  could  be 
hold  little  more  in  their  orbs  than  a  sea  of  white. 

"  Oh !  what  a  blessed  young  man !"  said  Mrs.  Quack- 
enbosh. 

"  How  I  wish  it  was  he  that  was  to  preach  for  us  to-day, " 
responded  that  gem  from  the  antique,  Miss  Polly  Entwistle, 
who  had  joined  every  church  in  Kentucky  in  turn,  without 
having  been  made  a  spouse  in  either. 

"  How  handsome  he  is  !"  simpered  Miss  Julia  Evergreen 
—  a  damsel  of  seventeen,  upon  whom  the  bilious  eyes  of 
Miss  Entwistle  were  cast  with  such  an  expression  as  the 
devil  is  said  to  put  on  when  suddenly  soused  in  holy  water. 

"  Handsome  is  that  handsome  does  !"  was  the  commen 
tary  of  a  venerable  cormorant  to  whom  Brother  Cross  had 
always  appeared  the  special  and  accepted  agent  of  heaven. 

"  I  wish  Brother  Cross  would  get  him  to  pray  only.  I 
wonder  if  he  believes  in  the  new-light  doctrine  ?"  purred 
one  of  the  ancient  tabbies  of  the  conventicle. 

"  The  new  light  is  but  the  old  darkness,  Sister  Wid 
geon,"  responded  an  old  farmer  of  sixty  four,  who  had 


THE   TOAD    ON   THE   ALTAR.  79 

divided  his  time  so  equally  between  the  plough  and  the 
prayer-book,  that  his  body  had  grown  as  crooked  as  the 
one,  while  his  mind  was  bewildered  with  as  many  doctrines 
as  ever  worried  all  sense  out  of  the  other. 

We  shall  not  suffer  these  to  divert  us,  any  more  than 
Stevens  permitted  their  speculations  upon  his  person  and 
religion  to  affect  his  devotion.  He  looked  neither  to  the 
right  nor  to  the  left  while  entering  the  church,  or  engaging 
in  the  ceremonies.  Xo  errant  glances  were  permitted  to 
betray  to  the  audience  a  mind  wandering  from  the  obvious 
duties  before  it ;  and  yet  Alfred  Stevens  knew  just  as  well 
that  every  eye  in  the  congregation  was  fixed  upon  him,  as 
that  he  was  himself  there ;  and  among  those  eyes,  his  own 
keen  glance  had  already  discovered  those  of  that  one  for 
whom  all  these  labors  of  hypocrisy,  were  undertaken. 

Margaret  Cooper  sat  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  church, 
but  the  line  of  vision  was  uninterrupted  between  them,  and 
when — though  very  unfrequently — Stevens  suffered  his 
gaze  to  rest  upon  her  form,  it  was  with  a  sudden  look  of 
pleased  abstraction,  as  if,  in  spite  of  himself,  his  mind  was 
irresistibly  drawn  away  from  all  recollection  of  its  imme 
diate  duties. 

If  a  word  is  sufficient  for  the  wise,  a  look  answers  an 
equal  purpose  with  the  vain.  Margaret  Cooper  left  the 
church  that  morning  with  a  pleased  conviction  that  the 
handsome  stranger  had  already  paid  his  devotion  to  her 
charms.  There  was  yet  another  passion  to  be  gratified. 
The  restless  ambition  of  her  foolish  heart  whispered  to  her 
momently,  that  if  her  person  had  done  so  much,  what  might 
she  not  hope  to  achieve  when  the  treasures  of  her  mind 
were  known.  She  had  long  since  made  the  comparison  of 
her  own  intellect  with  that  of  every  other  maiden  in  the 
village,  and  she  flattered  herself  that  before  many  days,  the 
young  stranger  should  make  it  too.  Her  vain  heart  was 
rapidly  preparing  to  smooth  the  path  of  the  enemy  and 
make  his  conquests  easy. 


80  CHARLEMONT. 

But  it  was  not  the  women  only,  by  whom  the  deportment 
of  Alfred  Stevens  was  so  closely  watched.  The  eyes  of 
suspicion  and  jealousy  were  upon  Kim.  The  two  young 
men  whose  interview  formed  the  conclusion  of  our  last 
chapter,  scanned  his  conduct  and  carriage  with  sufficient 
keenness  of  scrutiny. 

"  I'll  tell  you  what,  Bill  Hinkley,"  said  his  cousin,  "  this 
fellow,  to  my  thinking,  is  a  very  great  rascal." 

"  What  makes  you  think  so  ?"  demanded  the  former, 
with  slow,  dissatisfied  accents ;  "  he  seems  to  pray  very 
earnestly." 

''That's  the  very  reason  I  think  him  a  rascal.  His 
praying  seems  to  me  very  unnatural.  Here,  he's  a  perfect 
stranger  in  the  place,  yet  he  never  shows  any  curiosity  to 
see  the  people.  He  never  once  looks  around  him.  He 
walks  to  the  church  with  his  eye  cast  upon  the  ground,  and 
sometimes  he  squints  to  this  side  and  sometimes  to  that, 
but  he  seems  to  do  it  slyly,  and  seems  to  take  pains  that 
nobody  should  see  him  doing  it.  All  this  might  answer  for 
an  old  man,  who — believes  that  everything  is  vanity — as, 
indeed,  everything  must  seem  to  old  people  ;  but  to  a  young 
fellow,  full  of  blood,  who  eats  well,  drinks  well,  sleeps 
well,  and  should  naturally  have  a  hankering  after  a  young 
girl,  all  this  is  against  nature.  Now,  what's  against  nature 
is  wrong,  and  there's  wrong  at  the  bottom  of  it.  Youth  is 
the  time  to  laugh,  dance,  sing,  play  on  the  violin,  and  al 
ways  have  a  sweetheart  when  it  can  find  one.  If  you  can't 
get  a  beauty  take  a  brown  ;  and  if  Mary  won't  smile,  Susan 
will.  But  always  have  a  sweetheart ;  always  be  ready  for 
fun  and  frolic  ;  that's  the  way  for  the  young,  and  when  they 
don't  take  these  ways,  it's  unnatural — there's  something 
wrong  about  it,  and  I'm  suspicious  of  that  person.  Now,- 
I  just  have  this  notion  of  the  young  stranger.  He's  after 
no  good.  I  reckon  he's  like  a  hundred  others ;  too  lazy 
to  go  to  work,  he  goes  to  preaching,  and  learns  in  the  first 
sermon  to  beg  hard  for  the  missionaries.  I'll  lick  him, 


THE   TOAD    ON   THE   ALTAR.  81 

Bill,  to  a  certainty,  if  lie  gives  ine  the  littlest  end  of  an 
opportunity.'' 

"  Pshaw,  Ned,  don't  think  of  such  a  thing.  You  are 
quite  too  fond  of  licking  .people." 

"  Deuse  a  bit.  It  does  'em  good.  Look  you,  this  chap 
is  monstrous  like  Joe  Richards.  I'll  have  to  lick  him  on 
that  account." 

"  You're  mad,  Ned ;  talk  of  whipping  a  preacher." 

"  He's  no  preacher  yet,"  said  the  other,  "  but  if  I  lick 
him  he  may  become  one." 

"  No  matter,  he's  never  offended  you." 

"  Ay,  but  he  will.  I  see  it  in  the  fellow's  looks.  I 
never  was  mistaken  in  a  fellow's  looks  in  all  my  life." 

"  Wait  till  he  does  offend  you  then." 

"  Well,  I'm  willing  to  do  that,  for  I  know  the  time  will 
come.  I'm  always  sure,  when  I  first  see  a  man,  to  know 
whether  I'll  have  to  flog  him  or  not.  There's  a  something 
that  tells  me 'so.  Isn't  that  very  singular,  Bill  ?" 

"  No !  you  form  a  prejudice  against  a  man,  fancy  that 
you  ought  to  whip  him,  and  then  never  rest  till  you've  done 
so.  You'll  find  your  match  some  day." 

"  What !  you  think  some  other  chap  will  fancy  he  ought 
to  whip  me  ?  Well  —  maybe  so.  But  this  ain't  the  fellow 
to  do  that." 

"He's  a  stout  man,  and  I  reckon  strong.  Besides,  Ned, 
he's  very  handsome." 

"  Handsome  !  Lord,  Bill,  what  a  taste  you  have  ?  How 
can  a  man  be  called  handsome  that  never  altogether  opens 
his  eyes,  except  when  he  turns  up  the  whites  until  you'd 
think  he'd  never  be  able  to  get  the  balls  back  to  their 
proper  place?  Then,  what  a  chin  he  has  —  as  sharp  as  a 
pitchfork,  and  who  but  a  girl  child  would  fancy  a  man  with 
his  hair  combed  sleek  like  a  woman's  on  each  side  of  his 
ears,  with  big  whiskers  at  the  same  time  that  looks  for  all 
the  world  like  the  brush  of  a  seven  years  running  fox. 

4* 


82  CHARLEMONT. 

Handsome  !  If  my  pup  '  Dragon'  was  only  half  so  much 
like  a  beast,  I'd  plump  him  into  the  horsepond !" 

It  is  probable  that  Ned  Hinkley  did  not  altogether  think 
of  the  stranger  as  he  expressed  himself.  But  he  saw  how 
deep  a  hold  his  appearance  had  taken,  in  an  adverse  way, 
upon  the  mind  and  feelings  of  his  relative  and  friend,  and 
his  rude,  but  well-meant  endeavors  were  intended  to  con 
sole  his  companion,  after  his  own  fashion,  by  the  exhibition 
of  a  certain  degree  of  sympathy. 

His  efforts,  however  well  intended,  did  not  produce  any 
serious  effect.  William  Hinkley,  though  he  forbore  the 
subject,  and  every  expression  which  might  indicate  either 
soreness  or  apprehension,  was  still  the  victim  of  that  pre 
sentiment  which  had  touched  him  on  the  very  first  appear 
ance  of  the  stranger.  He  felt  more  than  ever  apprehensive 
on  the  score  of  his  misplaced  affections.  While  his  cousin 
had  been  watching  the  stranger,  his  eyes  had  been  fixed  upon 
those  of  Margaret  Cooper,  and  his  fears  were  increased  and 
strengthened,  as  he  perceived  that  she  was  quite  too  much 
absorbed  in  other  thoughts  and  objects  to  behold  for  an  in 
stant  the  close  espionage  which  he  maintained  upon  her 
person.  His  heart  sunk  within  him,  as  he  beheld  how  bold 
was  her  look,  and  how  undisguised  the  admiration  which  it 
expressed  for  the  handsome  stranger. 

"  You  will  go  home  with  me,  William  ?"  said  the  cousin. 

The  other  hesitated. 

"  I  think,"  said  he,  after  a  moment's  pause,  "  I  should 
rather  go  to  my  own  home.  It  is  a  sort  of  weakness  to  let 
a  stranger  drive  a  man  off  from  his  own  family,  and  though 
1  somehow  dislike  this  person's  looks,  and  am  very  sorry 
that  John  Cross  brought  him  to  our  house,  yet  I  shouldn't 
let  a  prejudice  which  seems  to  have  no  good  foundation 
take  such  possession  of  my  mind.  I  will  go  home,  Ned, 
and  see  —  perhaps  I  may  come  to  like  the  stranger  more 
when  I  know  him  better." 

<{  You'll  never  like  him.   I  see  it  in  the  fellow's  eye  ;  but 


THE   TOAD   ON   THE   ALTAR.  83 

just  as  you  please  about  going  home.  You're  right  in  one 
tiling — never  to  give  up  your  own  dunghill,  so  long  as  you 
can  get  room  on  it  for  a  fair  fling  with  your  enemy.  Be 
sides,  you  can  see  better,  by  going  home,  what  the  chap's 
after.  I  don't  see  why  he  should  come  here  to  learn  to 
preach.  We  can't  support  a  preacher.  We  don't  want 
one.  He  could  just  as  well  have  learned  his  business, 
where  he  came  from." 

With  these  words  the  cousins  separated. 

"  Now,"  said  Ned  Hinkley  as  he  took  his  own  way 
homeward,  in  a  deeper  fit  of  abstraction  than  was  altogether 
usual  with  him,  "  now  will  Bill  Hinkley  beat  about  the  bush 
without  bouncing  through  it,  until  it's  too  late  to  do  any 
thing.  He's  mealy-mouthed  with  the  woman,  and  mealy- 
mouthed  with  the  man,  and  mealy-mouthed  with  everybody. 
—  quite  too  soft-hearted  and  too  easy  to  get  on.  Here's  a 
stranger  nobody  knows,  just  like  some  crow  from  another 
corn-field,  that'll  pick  up  his  provisions  from  under  his  very 
nose,  and  he  doing  nothing  to  hinder  until  there's  no  use  in 
trying.  If  I  don't  push  in  and  help  him,  he'll  not  help 
himself.  As  for  Margaret  Cooper,  dang  it,  I'll  court  her 
for  him  myself.  If  he's  afraid  to  pop  the  question,  I  ain't ; 
though  I'll  have  to  be  mighty  careful  about  the  words  I  use, 
or  she'll  be  thinking  I  come  on  my  own  hook;  and  that 
would  be  a  mighty  scary  sort  of  business  all  round  the 
house.  Then  this  stranger.  If  anybody  can  look  through  a 
stranger  here  in  Charlemont,  I  reckon  I'm  that  man.  I 
suspect  him  already.  I  think  he's  after  no  good  with  his 
great  religioning ;  and  I'll  tie  such  a  pair  of  eyes  to  his 
heels,  that  his  understanding  will  never  be  entirely  out  of 
my  sight.  I'll  find  him  out  if  anybody  can.  But  I  wont 
lick  him  till  I  do.  That  wouldn't  be  altogether  right,  con 
sidering  he's  to  be  a*  parson,  though  I  doubt  he'll  never 
make  one." 

And  thus,  with  a  head  filled  with  cares  of  a  fashion 
altogether  new,  the  sturdy  young  Kentuckian  moved  home- 


84  CHARLEMONT. 

ward  with  a  degree  of  abstraction  in  his  countenance  which 
was  not  among  the  smallest  wonders  of  the  day  and  place 
in  the  estimation  of  his  friends  and  neighbors. 

Meanwhile,  the  work  of  mischief  was  in  full  progress. 
Everybody  knows  the  degree  of  familiarity  which  exists 
among  all  classes  in  a  country-village,  particularly  when 
the  parties  are  brought  together  under  the  social  and  stim 
ulating  influences  of  religion.  It  was  natural  that  the  pas 
tor,  long  known  and  well  beloved,  should  be  surrounded  by 
his  flock  as  he  descended  from  the  pulpit.  The  old  ladies 
always  have  a  saving  interest  in  his  presence,  and  they 
pave  the  way  for  the  young  ones.  Alfred  Stevens,  as  the 
protege  of  John  Cross,  naturally  attended  his  footsteps, 
and  was  introduced  by  him  to  the  little  congregation,  which 
had  mostly  remained  to  do  honor  to  the  preacher.  Of 
these,  not  last,  nor  least,  was  the  widow  Cooper ;  and,  un- 
reluctant  by  her  side,  though  in  silence,  and  not  without  a 
degree  of  emotion,  which  she  yet  was  able  to  conceal,  stood 
her  fair  but  proud-hearted  daughter. 

Margaret,  alas  !  Margaret  stood  there  with  a  heart  more 
proud,  yet  more  humble,  than  ever.  Proud  in  the  con 
sciousness  of  a  new  conquest — humble  in  the  feeling  that 
this  conquest  had  not  been  made,  but  at  the  expense  of  some 
portion  of  her  own  independence.  Hitherto,  her  suitors 
had  awakened  no  other  feeling  in  her  heart  but  vanity. 
Now,  she  felt  no  longer  able  to  sail  on,  "  imperial  arbitress," 
smiling  at  woes  which  she  could  inflict,  but  never  share. 
That  instinct,  which,  in  the  heart  of  young  Hinkley  had 
produced  fear,  if  not  antipathy,  had  been  as  active  in  her 
case,  though  with  a  very  different  result.  The  first  glimpse 
which  she  had  of  the  handsome  stranger,  months  before, 
had  impressed  her  with  a  singular  emotion ;  and  now  that 
he  was  returned,  she  could  not  divest  herself  of  the  thought 
that  his  return  was  a  consequence  of  that  one  glimpse. 

With  a  keener  judgment  than  belonged  to  her  neighbors, 
she  too  had  some  suspicions  that  religion  was  scarcely  the 


THE   TOAD   ON  THE   ALTAR.  85 

prevailing  motive  which  had  brought  the  youth  back  to  their 
little  village  ;  for  how  could  she  reconcile  with  his  present 
demure  gravity  and  devout  profession,  the  daring  which  he 
had  shown  in  riding  back  to  behold  her  a  second  time  ? 
That  such  had  been  his  motive  she  divined  by  her  own  feel 
ing  of  curiosity,  and  the  instincts  of  vanity  were  prompt 
enough  to  believe  that  this  was  motive  sufficient  to  bring 
him  back  once  more,  and  under  the  guise  of  a  character, 
which  would  the  readiest  secure  an  easy  entrance  to  society. 
Pleased  with  the  fancy  that  she  herself  was  the  object 
sought,  she  did  not  perceive  how  enormous  was  the  sort  of 
deception  which  the  stranger  had  employed  to  attain  the 
end  desired.  With  all  her  intellect  she  had  not  the  wis 
dom  to  suspect  that  he  who  could  so  readily  practise  so  bold 
an  hypocrisy,  was  capable  of  the  worst  performances ;  and 
when  their  names  were  mentioned,  and  his  eyes  were  per 
mitted  to  meet  and  mingle  their  glances  with  hers,  she  was 
conscious  of  nothing  farther  than  a  fluttering  sentiment 
of  pleasure,  which  was  amply  declared  to  the  stranger,  in 
the  flash  of  animation  which  spoke  openly  in  her  counte 
nance  ;  eye  speaking  to  lip  and  cheek,  and  these,  in  turn, 
responding  with  a  kindred  sentiment  to  the  already  tell-tale 
eye. 

William  Hinkley,  from  a  little  distance,  beheld  this  meet 
ing.  He  had  lingered  with  the  curiosity  which  belongs  to 
the  natural  apprehension  of  the  lover.  He  saw  them  ap 
proach — nay,  fancied  he  beheld  the  mutual  expression  of 
their  sympathizing  eyes,  and  he  turned  away,  and  hurried 
homeward,  with  the  feeling  of  a  heart  already  overborne, 
and  defrauded  in  all  its  hopes  and  expectations.  The 
flowers  were  threatened  with  blight  in  his  Eden  :  but  he  did 
not  conjecture,  poor  fellow,  that  a  serpent  had  indeed  en 
tered  it ! 


86  CHARLEMONT. 


CHAPTER   VII. 

THE  GOOD   YOUNG  MAN  IN  MEDITATION. 

PERHAPS,  it  may  be  assumed,  with  tolerable  safety,  that  no 
first  villany  is  ever  entirely  deliberate.  There  is  something 
in  events  to  give  it  direction — something  to  egg  it  on — to 
point  out  time,  place,  and  opportunity.  Of  course,  it  is  to 
be  understood  that  the  actor  is  one,  in  the  first  place,  want 
ing  in  the  moral  sense.  What  we  simply  mean  to  affirm  is, 
that  the  particular,  single  act,  is,  in  few  instances,  delib 
erately  meditated  from  the  beginning.  We  very  much  in 
cline  to  think  that  some  One  event,  which  we  ordinarily 
refer  to  the  chapter  of  accidents,  has  first  set  the  mind  to 
work  upon  schemes,  which  would  otherwise,  perhaps,  never 
be  thought  of  at  all.  Thus,  we  find  persons  who  continue 
very  good  people,  as  the  world  goes,  until  middle  age,  or 
even  seniority  ;  then,  suddenly  breaking  out  into  some 
enormous  offence  against  decency  and  society,  which  startles 
the  whole  pious  neighborhood.  Folks  start  up,  with  out 
stretched  hands  and  staring  eyes,  and  cry  aloud :  — 

"  Lord  bless  us,  who  would  have  thought  so  good  a  man 
could  be  so  bad  !" 

He,  poor  devil,  never  fancied  it  himself,  till  he  became 
so,  and  it  was  quite  too  late  to  alter  his  arrangements. 
Perhaps  his  neighbors  may  have  had  some  share  in  making 
him  so.  Pious  persons  are  very  frequently  reduced  to 
these  straits  by  having  the  temptation  forced  too  much  upon 
them.  Flesh  and  blood  can  not  always  withstand  the  prov 
ocation  of  earthly  delicacies,  even  where  the  spirit  is  a 


THE   GOOD    YOUNG   MAN   IN   MEDITATION.  87 

tolerably  stout  one  ;  and  of  the  inadequacy  of  the  mind, 
always  to  contend  with  the  inclinations  of  the  flesh,  have 
we  not  a  caution  in  that  injunction  of  Holy  Book  which 
warns  us  to  fly  from  temptation  ?  But  lame  people  can  not 
fly,  and  he  is  most  certainly  lame  who  halts  upon  mere  feet 
of  circumstances.  Such  people  are  always  in  danger. 

Now,  Alfred  Stevens,  properly  brought  up,  from  the  be 
ginning,  at  some  theological  seminary,  would  have  been  — 
though  in  moral  respects  pretty  much  the  same  person — yet 
in  the  eye  of  the  world  a  far  less  criminal  man.  Not  that 
his  desires  would  have  been  a  jot  more  innocent,  but  they 
would  have  taken  a  different  direction.  Instead  of  the 
recklessness  of  course,  such  as  seems  to  have  distinguished 
the  conduct  of  our  present  subject — instead  of  his  loose 
indulgences — his  smart,  licentious  speeches  —  the  sheep's- 
eye  glances,  right  and  left,  which  he  was  but  too  prone  to 
bestow,  without  prudence  or  precaution,  whenever  he  walked 
among  the  fair  sisters — he,  the  said  Alfred,  would  have 
taken  counsel  of  a  more  worldly  policy,  which  is  yet  popu 
larly  considered  a  more  pious  one.  He  would  have  kept 
his  eyes  from  wandering  to  and  fro ;  he  would  have  held 
his  blood  in  subjection.  Patient  as  a  fox  on  a  long  scent 
in  autumn,  he  would  have  kept  himself  lean  and  circum 
spect,  until,  through  the  help  of  lugubrious  prayer  and  lan 
tern  visage,  he  could  have  beguiled  into  matrimony  some 
one  feminine  member  of  the  flock — not  always  fair — whose 
worldly  goods  would  have  sufficed  in  full  atonement  for  all 
those  circumspect,  self-imposed  restraints,  which  we  find 
usually  so  well  rewarded.  But  Alfred  Stevens  was  not  a 
man  of  this  pious  temper.  It  is  evident,  from  his  present 
course,  that  he  had  some  inkling  of  the  modus  operandi; 
but  all  his  knowledge  fell  short  of  that  saving  wisdom  which 
would  have  defrauded  the  social  world  of  one  of  its  moral 
earthquakes,  and  possibly  deprived  the  survivors  of  the 
present  moral  story — for  moral  it  is,  though  our  hero  is 
not  exactly  so. 


88  CHARLEMONT. 

It  would  be  doing  our  subject  and  our  theory  equal  injus 
tice  if  we  were  to  suppose  that  he  had  any  fixed  purpose, 
known  to  himself,  when  he  borrowed  the  professional  gar 
ment,  and  began  to  talk  with  the  worthy  John  Cross  in  the 
language  of  theology,  and  with  the  tongue  of  a  hypocrite. 
He  designed  to  visit  Charlemont — that  was  all— as  he  had 
really  been  impressed  by  the  commanding  figure  and  noble 
expression  of  beauty  of  that  young  damsel  whom  he  had 
encountered  by  the  roadside.  Even  this  impression,  how 
ever,  would  have  been  suffered  to  escape  from  his  mind, 
had  it  not  been  so  perfectly  convenient  to  revisit  the  spot, 
on  his  return  to  his  usual  place  of  residence.  During  the 
summer,  Charlemont  and  its  rustic  attractions  had  been  the 
frequent  subject  of  a  conversation,  running  into  discussion, 
between  himself  and  the  amiable  old  man,  his  uncle.  The 
latter  repeatedly  urged  upon  his  nephew  to  make  the  visit ; 
fondly  conceiving  that  a  nearer  acquaintance  with  the  pleas 
ant  spot  which  had  so  won  upon  his  own  affections,  would 
be  productive  of  a  like  effect  upon  his  nephew.  Alas,  how 
little  did  he  know  the  mischief  he  was  doing ! 

In  the  very  idleness  of  mood — with  just  that  degree  of 
curiosity  which  prompts  one  to  turn  about  and  look  a  sec 
ond  time — Alfred  Stevens  resumed  the  route  which  included 
Charlemont.  But  the  devil  had,  by  this  time,  found  his 
way  into  the  meditations  of  the  youth,  and  lay  lurking,  un 
known  to  himself,  perhaps,  at  the  bottom  of  this  same  curi 
osity.  The  look  of  pride  and  defiance  which  Margaret 
Cooper  had  betrayed,  when  the  bold  youth  rode  back  to 
steal  a  second  glance  at  her  matchless  person,  was  equiva 
lent  to  an  equally  bold  challenge ;  and  his  vanity  hastily 
picked  up  the  gauntlet  which  hers  had  thrown  down.  He 
wished  to  see  the  damsel  again — to  see  if  she  was  so  beau 
tiful — if  she  did,  indeed,  possess  that  intellectual  strength 
and  vivacity  which  flashed  out  so  suddenly  and  with  so 
much  splendor  from  beneath  her  long,  dark  eye-lashes ! 

In  this  mood  he  met  witli  John  Cross  ;  and  the  simplicity 


THE   GOOD   YOUNG  MAN   IN   MEDITATION.  89 

of  that  worthy  creature  offered  another  challenge,  not  less 
provoking  than  the  former,  to  the  levity  and  love  of  mis 
chief  which  also  actively  predominated  in  the  bosom  of  the 
youth.  Fond  of  a  malicious  sort  of  fun,  and  ever  on  the 
look-out  for  subjects  of  quizzing,  it  was  in  compliance  with 
a  purely  habitual  movement  of  his  mind  that  he  conjured 
up  that  false,  glozing  story  of  his  religious  inclinations, 
which  had  so  easily  imposed  upon  the  unsuspecting  preach 
er.  Never  was  proceeding  less  premeditated,  or  so  com 
pletely  the  result  of  an  after-thought,  than  this ;  and  now 
that  it  had  proved  so  perfectly  successful — now  that  he 
found  himself  admitted  into  the  very  heart  of  the  little  vil 
lage,  and  into  the  bosoms  of  the  people — he  began,  for  the 
first  time,  to  feel  the  awkwardness  of  the  situation  in  which 
he  had  placed  himself,  and  the  responsibilities,  if  not  dan 
gers,  to  which  it  subjected  him.  To  play  the  part  of  a 
mere  preacher  —  to  talk  glibly,  and  with  proper  unction, 
in  the  stereotype  phraseology  of  the  profession — was  no 
difficult  matter  to  a  clever  young  lawyer  of  the  West,  hav 
ing  a  due  share  of  the  gift  of  gab,  and  almost  as  profoundly 
familiar  with  scripture  quotation  as  Henry  Clay  himself. 
But  there  was  something  awkward  in  the  idea  of  detection, 
and  he  was  not  unaware  of  those  summary  dangers  which 
are  likely  to  follow,  in  those  wild  frontier  regions,  from  the 
discovery  of  so  doubtful  a  personage  as  "  Bro'  Wolf"  in 
the  clothing  of  a  more  innocent  animal.  Chief-Justice 
Lynch  is  a  sacred  authority  in  those  parts ;  and,  in  such  a 
case  as  his,  Alfred  Stevens  did  not  doubt  that  the  church 
itself  would  feel  it  only  becoming  to  provide  another  sort 
of  garment  for  the  offender,  which,  whether  pleasant  or  not, 
would  at  least  be  likely  to  stick  more  closely,  and  prove 
less  comfortably  warm. 

But,  once  in,  there  was  no  help  but  to  play  put  the  game 
as  it  had  been  began.  Villagers  are  seldom  very  sagacious 
people,  and  elegant  strangers  are  quite  too  much  esteemed 
among  them  to  make  them  very  particular  in  knowing  the 


90  CHARLEMONT. 

whys  and  wherefores  about  them — whence  they  come, 
what  they  do,  and  whither  they  propose  to  go.  Stevens 
had  only  to  preserve  his  countenance  and  a  due  degree  of 
caution,  and  the  rest  was  easy.  He  had  no  reason  to  sup 
pose  himself  an  object  of  suspicion  to  anybody  ;  and  should 
he  become  so,  nothing  was  more  easy  than  to  take  his  de 
parture  with  sufficient  promptness,  and  without  unnecessa 
rily  soliciting  the  prayers  of  the  church  in  behalf  of  the 
hurried  traveller !  At  all  events,  he  could  lose  nothing  by 
the  visit:  perhaps  something  might  be  gained. 

What  was  that  something  ?  Behold  him  in  his  chamber, 
preparing  to  ask  and  to  answer  this  question  for  himself. 
The  sabbath-day  is  finally  over.  He  has  been  almost  the 
lion  of  the  day.  We  say  almost,  for  the  worthy  John  Cross 
could  not  easily  be  deprived,  by  any  rivalry,  of  the  loyal 
regards  of  his  old  parishioners.  But,  though  the  latter  had 
most  friends,  the  stranger,  Alfred  Stevens,  had  had  most 
followers.  All  were  anxious  to  know  him — the  young,  in 
particular,  maidens  and  .men;  and  the  grave  old  dames 
would  have  given  their  last  remaining  teeth,  bone  or  waxen, 
to  have  heard  him  discourse.  There  was  so  much  sense 
and  solemnity  in  his  profound,  devout  looks !  he  has  been 
made  known  to  them  all ;  he  has  shaken  hands  with  many. 
But  he  has  exchanged  the  speech  of  sympathy  and  feeling 
with  but  one  only — and  that  one  ! — 

Of  her  he  thinks  in  his  chamber — his  quiet,  snug,  little 
chamber — a  mere  closet,  looking  out  upon  a  long  garden- 
slip,  in  which  he  sees,  without  much  heeding  them,  long 
lanes  of  culinary  cabbage,  and  tracts  of  other  growing  and 
decaying  vegetation,  in  which  his  interest  is  quite  too  small 
to  make  it  needful  that  he  should  even  ask  its  separate 
names.  His  chin  rests  upon  his  hands  with  an  air  of  medi 
tation  ;  and  gradually  his  thoughts  rise  up  in  soliloquy, 
which  is  suffered  to  invade  no  ear  but  ours  :- 

"Well!  who'd  have  thought  it?  a  parson!  —  devilish 
good,  indeed!  How  it  will  tell  at  Murkey's!  What  a 


THE   GOOD    YOUNG   MAN   IN   MEDITATION.  91 

metamorphose  !  if  it  don't  stagger  'em,  nothing  will !  It's 
the  best  thing  I've  done  yet !  I  shall  have  to  do  it  over  a 
hundred  times,  and  must  get  up  a  sermon  or  two  before 
hand,  and  swear  that  I  preached  them — and,  egad !  I  may 
have  to  do  it  yet  before  I'm  done — ha  !  ha !  ha !" 

The  laughter  was  a  quiet  chuckle,  not  to  be  heard  by 
vulgar  ears  ;  it  subsided  in  the  gorges  of  his  throat.  The 
idea  of  really  getting  up  a  sermon  tickled  him.  He  mut 
tered  over  texts,  all  that  he  could  remember ;  and  pro 
ceeded  to  turn  over  the  phrases  for  an  introduction,  such 
as,  unctuous  with  good  things  in  high  degree,  he  fancied 
would  be  particularly  commendable  to  his  unsuspecting 
hearers.  Alfred  Stevens  had  no  small  talent  for  imitation. 
He  derived  a  quiet  sort  of  pleasure,  on  the  present  occa 
sion,  from  its  indulgence. 

"  I  should  have  made  a  famous  parson,  and,  if  all  trades 
fail,  may  yet.  But,  now  that  I  am  here,  what's  to  come 
of  it  ?  It's  not  so  hard  to  put  on  a  long  face,  and  prose  in 
scripture  dialect ;  but,  cui  bono  ?  Let  me  see — hem  !  The 
girl  is  pretty,  devilish  pretty — with  such  an  eye,  and  looks 
so  !  There's  soul  in  the  wench — life — and  a  passion  that 
speaks  out  in  every  glance  and  movement.  A  very  Cressid, 
with  a  cross  of  Corinne  !  Should  she  be  like  her  of  Troy  ? 
At  all  events,  it  can  do  no  harm  to  see  what  she's  made  of! 

"  But  I  must  manage  warily.  I  have  something  to  lose 
in  the  business.  Frankfort  is  but  fifty  miles  from  Charle- 
mont — fifty  miles — and  there's  Ellisland,  but  fourteen. 
Fourteen  ! — an  easy  afternoon  ride.  That  way  it  must  be 
done.  Ellisland  shall  be  my  post-town.  I  can  gallop  there 
in  an  afternoon,  drop  and  receive  my  letters,  and  be  back 
by  a  round-about  which  shall  effectually  baffle  inquiry.  A 
week  or  two  will  be  enough.  I  shall  see,  by  that  time,  what 
can  be  done  with  her ;  though  still,  cautiously,  Parson  Ste 
vens  ! — cautiously." 

The  farther  cogitations  of  Stevens  were  subordinate  to 
these,  but  of  the  same  family  complexion.  They  were 


92  CHABLEMONT. 

such  as  to  keep  him  wakeful.  The  Bible  which  had  been 
placed  upon  his  table,  by  the  considerate  providence  Of  his 
hostess,  lay  there  unopened ;  though,  more  than  once,  he 
lifted  the  cover  of  *the  sacred  volume,  letting  it  fall  again 
suddenly,  as  if  with  a  shrinking  consciousness  that  such 
thoughts  as  at  that  moment  filled  his  mind  were  scarcely 
consistent  with  the  employment,  in  any  degree,  of  such  a 
companion.  Finally,  he  undressed  and  went  to  bed.  The 
hour  had  become  very  late. 

"  Good  young  man,"  muttered  worthy  Mrs.  Hinkley  to 
her  drowsy  spouse,  in  the  apartment  below,  as  she  heard 
the  movements  of  her  guest — "  good  young  man,  he's  just 
now  going  to  bed.'  He's  been  studying  all  this  while.  I 
reckon  Brother  Cross  has  been  sound  this  hour." 

The  light  from  Stevens's  window  glimmered  out  over  the 
cabbage-garden,  and  was  seen  by  many  an  ancient  dame  as 
she  prepared  for  her  own  slumbers. 

"  Good  young  man,"  said  they  all  with  one  accord.  "  I 
reckon  he's  at  the  Bible  now.  Oh  !  he'll  be  a  blessed  la 
borer  In  the  vineyard,  I  promise  you,  when  Brother  Cross 
is  taken." 

"  If  it  were  not  for  the  cursed  bore  of  keeping  up  the 
farce  beyond  the  possibility  of  keeping  up  the  fun,  such  a 
rig  as  this  would  be  incomparably  pleasant;  but" — yawn 
ing — "  that's  the  devil!  I  get  monstrous  tired  of  a  joke 
that  needs  dry  nursing !" 

Such  were  the  last  muttered  words  of  Parson  Stevens  be 
fore  he  yielded  himself  up  to  his  slumbers.  Good  young 
man — charitable  old  ladies — gullible  enough,  if  not  chari 
table  !  But  the  professions  need  such  people,  and  we  must 
not  quarrel  with  them  ! 


PAROCHIAL   PERFORMANCES..  93 


CHAPTER   VIII. 

PAROCHIAL   PERFORMANCES. 

THE  poor,  conceited  blackguards  of  this  ungracious  earth 
have  a  fancy  that  there  must  be  huge  confusion  and  a  mighty 
bobbery  in  nature,  corresponding  with  that  which  is  for 
ever  going  on  in  their  own  little  spheres.  If  we  have  a 
toothache,  we  look  for  a  change  of  weather ;  our  rheuma 
tism  is  a  sure  sign  that  God  has  made  his  arrangements  to 
give  us  a  slapping  rain ;  and,  should  the  white  bull  or  the 
brown  heifer  die,  look  out  for  hail,  or  thunderstorm,  at 
least,  as  a  forerunner  of  the  event.  Nothing  less  can  pos 
sibly  console  or  satisfy  us  for  such  a  most  unaccountable, 
not  to  say  unnatural  and  unwarrantable,  a  dispensation. 
The  poets  have  ministered  largely  to  this  vanity  on  the 
part  of  mankind.  Shakspere  is  constantly  at  it,  and  Ben 
Jonson,  and  all  the  dramatists.  Not  a  butcher,  in  the 
whole  long  line  of  the  butchering  Caesars,  from  Augustus 
down,  but,  according  to  them,  died  in  a  sort  of  gloom- 
glory,  resulting  from  the  explosion  of  innumerable  stars 
and  rockets,  and  the  apparitions  of  as  many  comets  !  "  Gor- 
gons,  and  hydras,  and  chimeras  dire,"  invariably  announce 
the  coming  stroke  of  fate ;  and  five  or  seven  moons  of  a 
night  have  suddenly  arisen  to  warn  some  miserable  sublu- 
narian  that  orders  had  been  issued  that  there  should  be  no 
moon  for  him  that  quarter,  or,  in  military  and  more  precise 
phrase,  that  he  should  have  no  "  quarters"  during  that  moon. 
Even  our  venerable  and  stern  old  puritan  saint,  Milton  — 


94  CHARLEMONT. 

he  who  was  blessed  with  the  blindness  of  his  earthly  eye, 
that  he  should  be  more  perfectly  enabled  to  contemplate 
the  Deity  within — has  given  way  to  this  superstition  when 
he  subjects  universal  nature  to  an  earthquake  because  Ad 
am's  wife  followed  the  counsels  of  the  snake. 

A  pretty  condition  of  things  it  would  be,  if  stars,  suns, 
and  systems,  were  to  shoot  madly  from  their  spheres  on 
such  occasions  !  Well  might  the  devil  laugh  if  such  were 
the  case !  How  he  would  chuckle  to  behold  globes  and 
seas,  and  empires,  fall  into  such  irreverend  antics  because 
some  poor  earthling,  be  he  kingling  or  common  sodling, 
goes  into  desuetude,  either  by  the  operation  of  natural  laws, 
or  the  sharp  application  of  steel  or  shot !  Verily,  it  makes 
precious  little  difference  to  the  Great  Reaper,  by  what  pro 
cess  we  finally  become  harvested.  He  is  sure  of  us,  though 
no  graves  gape,  no  stars  fall,  no  comets  rush  out,  like  young- 
colts  from  their  stables,  flinging  their  tails  into  the  faces  of 
the  more  sober  and  pacific  brotherhood  of  lights.  But,  de 
nied  the  satisfaction  of  chuckling  at  such  sights  as  these, 
his  satanic  majesty  chuckles  not  the  less  at  the  human  van 
ity  .which  looks  for  them.  Nay,  he  himself  is  very  likely 
to  suggest  this  vanity.  It  is  one  of  his  forms  of  temptation 
—  one  of  his  manoeuvres;  and  we  take  leave,  by  way  of 
warning,  to  hint  to  those  worthy  people,  who  judge  of  to 
morrow's  providence  by  the  corns  of  their  great  toe,  or 
their  periodical  lumbago,  or  the  shooting  of  their  warts,  or 
the  pricking  of  their  palms,  that  it  is  in  truth  the  devil 
which  is  at  the  bottom  of  all  this,  and  that  the  Deity  has 
nothing  to  do  in  the  business.  It  is  the  devil  instilling  his 
vanities  into  the  human  heart,  in  that  form  which  he  thinks 
least  likely  to  prove  offensive,  or  rouse  suspicion.  The 
devil  is  most  active  in  your  affairs,  Mrs.  Thompson,  the  mo 
ment  you  imagine  that  there  must  be  a  revolution  on  your 
account  in  the  universal  laws  of  nature..  At  such  a  moment 
your  best  policy  will  be  to  have  blood  let,  take  physic,  and 
go  with  all  diligence  to  your  prayers. 


PAROCHIAL    PERFORMANCES.  95 

There  was  no  sort  of  warning  on  the  part  of  the  natural 
to  the  moral  world,  on  the  day  when  Alfred  Stevens  set 
forth  with  the  worthy  John  Cross,  to  visit  the  flock  of  the 
latter.  There  was  not  a  lovelier  morning  in  the  whole 
calendar.  The  sun  was  alone  in  heaven,  without  a  cloud; 
and  on  earth,  the  people  in  and  about  Charlemont,  having 
been  to  church  only  the  day  before,  necessarily  made  their 
appearance  everywhere  with  petticoats  and  pantaloons  tol 
erably  clean  and  unrumpled.  Cabbages  had  not  yet  been 
frost-bitten.  Autumn  had  dressed  up  her  children  in  the 
garments  of  beauty,  preparatory  to  their  funeral.  There 
was  a  good  crop  of  grain  that  year,  and  hogs  were  brisk, 
and  cattle  lively,  and  all  "  looking-up,"  in  the  language  of 
the  prices  current.  This  was  long  before  the  time  when 

Mr.  M made  his  famous  gammon  speeches ;  but  the 

people  had  a  presentiment  of  what  was  coming,  and  to 
crown  the  eventful  anticipations  of  the  season,  there  was 
quite  a  freshet  in  Salt  river.  The  signs  were  all  and  every 
where  favorable.  Speculation  was  beginning  to  chink  his 
money-bags ;  three  hundred  new  banks,  as  many  railways, 
were  about  to  be  established  ;  old  things  were  about" to  fleet 
and  disappear ;  all  .things  were  becoming  new ;  and  the 
serpent  entered  Charlemont,  and  made  his  way  among  the 
people  thereof,  without  any  signs  of  combustion,  or  over 
throw,  or  earthquake. 

Everybody  has  some  tolerable  idea  of  what  the  visitation 
of  a  parson  is,  to  the  members  of  his  flock.  In  the  big 
cities  he  comes  one  day,  and  the  quarterly  collector  the 
next.  He  sits  down  with  the  "  gude  wife"  in  a  corner  to 
themselves,  and  he  speaks  to  her  in  precisely  the  same  low 
tones  which  cunning  lovers  are  apt  to  use.  If  he  knows 
any  one  art  better  than  another,  it  is  that  of  finding  his 
way  to  the  affections  of  the  female  part  of  his  flock.  A 
subdued  tone  of  voice  betrays  a  certain  deference  for  the 
party  addressed.  The  lady  is  pleased  with  such  a  prelimi 
nary.  She  is  flattered  again  by  the  pains  he  takes  in  behalf 


96  CHARLEMONT. 

of  her  eternal  interests  ;  she  is  pretty  sure  he  takes  no  such 
pains  with  any  of  her  neighbors.  It  is  a  sign  that  he  thinks 
her  soul  the  most  becoming  little  soul  in  the  flock,  and 
when  he  goes  away,  she  looks  after  him  and  sighs,  and 
thinks  him  the  most  blessed  soul  of  a  parson.  The  next 
week  she  is  the  first  to  get  up  a  subscription  which  she 
heads  with  her  own  name  in  connection  with  a  sum  realized 
by  stinting  her  son  of  his  gingerbread  money,  in  order  to 
make  this  excellent  parson  a  life-member  of  the  "  Zion 
African  Bible  and  Missionary  Society,  for  disseminating 
the  Word  among  the  Heathen."  The  same  fifty  dollars  so 
appropriated,  would  have  provided  tuel  for  a  month  to  the 
starving  poor  of  her  own  parish. 

But  Brother  Cross  gets  no  such  windfalls.  It  is  proba 
ble  that  he  never  heard  of  such  a  thing,  and  that  if  he  did, 
he  would  unhesitatingly  cry  out,  "  Humbug,"  at  the  first 
intimation  of  it.  Besides,  his  voice  was  not  capable  of 
that  modulation  which  a  young  lover,  or  a  city  parson  can 
give  it.  Accustomed  to  cry  aloud  and  spare  not,  he  usually 
spoke  as  if  there  were  some  marrow  in  his  bones,  and  some 
vigor  in  his  wind-bags.  When  he  came  to  see  the  good 
wife  of  his  congregation,  he  gave  her  a, hearty  shake  of  the 
hand,  congratulated  her  as  he  found  her  at  her  spinning- 
wheel  ;  spoke  with  a  hearty  approbation,  if  he  saw  that  her 
children  were  civil  and  cleanly  ;  if  otherwise,  he  blazed  out 
with  proper  boldness,  by  telling  her  that  all  her  praying 
and  groaning,  would  avail  nothing  for  her  soul's  safety,  so 
long  as  Jackey's  breeches  were  unclean ;  and  that  the 
mother  of  a  rude  and  dirty  child,  was  as  sure  of  damnation, 
as  if  she  never  prayed  at  all.  He  had  no  scruples  about 
speaking  the  truth.  He  never  looked  about  him  for  the 
gentle,  easy  phrases,  by  which  to  distinguish  the  conduct 
which  he  was  compelled  to  condemn.  He  knew  not  only 
that  the  truth  must  be  spoken,  and  be  spoken  by  him,  if  by 
anybody,  but  that  there  is  no  language  too  strong — per 
haps  none  quite  strong  enough — for  the  utterance  of  the 


PAROCHIAL    PERFORMANCES.  97 

truth.  But  it  must  not  be  supposed,  that  John  Cross  was 
in  any  respect  an  intolerant,  or  sour  man.  He  was  no 
hypocrite,  and  did  not,  therefore,  need  to  clothe  his  features 
in  the  vinegar  costume  of  that  numerous  class.  His  limbs 
were  put  into  no  such  rigid  fetters  as  too  often  denote  the 
unnatural  restraints  which  such  persons  have  imposed  upon 
their  inner  minds.  He  could  laugh  and  sing  with  the  mer 
riest,  and  though  he  did  not  absolutely  shake  a  leg  himself, 
yet  none  rejoiced  more  than  he,  when  Ned  Hinkley's  fiddle 
summoned  the  village  to  this  primitive  exercise. 

"  Now,  Alfred  Stevens,"  said  he,  the  breakfast  being 
over,  "  what  say'st  thou  to  a  visit  with  me  among  my 
people.  Some  of  them  know  thee  already ;  they  will  all 
be  rejoiced  to  see  thee.  I  will  show  thee  how  they  live, 
and  if  thou  shouldst  continue  to  feel  within  thee,  the 
growing  of  that  good  seed  whose  quickening  thou /hast 
declared  to  me,  it  will  be  well  that  thou  shouldst  begin 
early  to  practise  the  calling  which  may  so  shortly  become 
thine  own.  Here  rnightest  thou  live  a  space,  toiling  in 
thy  spiritual  studies,  until  the  brethren  should  deem  thee 
ripe  for  thy  office ;  meanwhile,  thy  knowledge  of  the  peo 
ple  with  whom  thou  livest,  and  their  knowledge  of  thee, 
would  be  matter  of  equal  comfort  and  consolation,  I  trust, 
to  thee  as  to  them." 

Alfred  Stevens  expressed  himself  pleased  with  the  ar 
rangement.  Indeed,  he  desired  nothing  else. 

"  But  shall  we  see  all  of  them  ?"  he  demanded.  The 
arch-hypocrite  began  to  fear  that  his  curiosity  would  be 
compelled  to  pay  a  heavy  penalty  to  dullness. 

"  The  flock  is  small,"  said  John  Cross.  "  A  day  will 
suffice,  but  I  shall  remain  three  days  in  Charlemont,  and 
some  I  will  see  to-day,  and  some  to-morrow,  and  some  on 
the  day  after,  which  is  Wednesday." 

"  Taken  in  moderate  doses,"  murmured  Stevens  to  him 
self,  "  one  may  stand  it." 

He  declared  himself  in  readiness,  and  the  twain  set 
5 


98  CHARLEMONT. 

forth.  The  outward  behavior  of  Stevens  was  very  exem 
plary.  He  had  that  morning  contrived  to  alter  his  costume 
in  some  respects  to  suit  the  situation  of  affairs.  For  ex 
ample,  he  had  adopted  that  slavish  affectation  which  seems 
to  insist  that  a  preacher  of  God  should  always  wear  a 
white  cravat,  so  constructed  and  worn  as  to  hide  the  tips 
of  his  shirt  collar.  If  they  wore  none,  they  would  look 
infinitely  more  noble,  and  we  may  add,  never  suffer  from 
bronchitis.  In  his  deportment,  Stevens  was  quite  as  sanc 
tified  as  heart  could  wish.  He  spoke  always  deliberately, 
and  with  great  unction.  If  he  had  to  say  "  cheese  and 
mousetrap,"  he  would  look  very  solemn,  shake  his  head 
with  great  gravity  and  slowness,  and  then  deliberately  and 
equally  emphasizing  every  syllable,  would  roll  forth  the 
enormous  sentence  with  all  the  conscious  dignity  of  an 
ancient  oracle.  That  "  cheese  and  mousetrap,"  so  spoken, 
acquired  in  the  ears  of  the  hearer,  a  degree  of  importance 
and  signification,  which  it  confounded  them  to  think  they 
had  never  perceived  before  in  the  same  felicitous  colloca 
tion  of  syllables.  John  Cross  was  not  without  his  vanities. 
Who  is  ?  Vanity  is  quite  as  natural  as  any  other  of  our 
endowments.  It  is  a  guaranty  for  amiability.  A  vain 
man  is  always  a  conciliatory  one.  He  is  kind  to  others, 
because  the  approbation  of  others  is  a  strong  desire  in  his 
mind.  Accordingly,  even  vanity  is  not  wholly  evil.  It  has 
its  uses. 

John  Cross  had  his  share,  and  Alfred  Stevens  soon  dis 
covered  that  he  ministered  to  it  in  no  small  degree.  The 
good  old  preacher  took  to  himself  the  credit  of  having 
effected  his  conversion,  so  far  as  it'  had  gone.  It  was  his 
hand  that  had  plucked  the  brand  from  the  burning.  He 
spoke  freely  of  his  protege,  as  well  before  his  face  as  be 
hind  his  back.  In  his  presence  he  dwelt  upon  the  holy 
importance  of  his  calling ;  to  others  he  dilated  upon  the 
importance  of  securing  for  the  church  a  young  man  of  so 
much  talent,  yet  of  so  much  devotion  :  qualities  not  always 


PAROCHIAL    PERFORMANCES.  99 

united,  it  would  seem,  among  the  churchlings  of  modern 
times. 

Alfred  Stevens  seemed  to  promise  great  honor  to  his 
teacher.  That  cunning  which  is  the  wisdom  of  the  world 
ling,  and  which  he  possessed  in  a  very  surprising  degree, 
enabled  him  to  adopt  a  course  of  conduct,  look,  and  remark, 
which  amply  satisfied  the  exactions  of  the  scrupulous,  and 
secured  the  unhesitating  confidence  of  those  who  were  of  a 
more  yielding  nature.  He  soon  caught  the  phraseology  of 
his  companion,  and  avoiding  his  intensity,  was  less  likely 
to  offend  his  hearers.  Plis  manner  was  better  subdued  to 
the  social  tone  of  ordinary  life,  his  voice  lacked  the  sharp 
twang  of  the  backwoods  man  ;  and,  unlike  John  Cross,  ho 
was  able  to  modulate  it  to  those  undertones,  which,  as  we 
have  before  intimated,  are  so  agreeable  from  the  lips  of 
young  lovers  and  fashionable  preachers.  At  all  events, 
John  Cross  himself,  was  something  more  than  satisfied  with 
his  pupil,  and  took  considerable  pains  to  show  him  off.  He 
was  a  sort  of  living  and  speaking  monument  of  the  good 
man's  religious  prowess. 

It  does  not  need  that  we  should  follow  the  two  into  all 
the  abodes  which  they  were  compelled  to  visit.  The  reader 
would  scarcely  conceal  his  yawns  though  Stevens  did. 
Enough,  that  a  very  unctuous  business  was  made  of  it  that 
morning.  Many  an  old  lady  was  refreshed  with  the  spir 
itual  beverage  bestowed  in  sufficient  quantity  to  last  for 
another  quarter ;  while  many  a  young  one  rejoiced  in  the 
countenance  of  so  promising  a  shepherd  as  appeared  under 
the  name  of  Alfred  Stevens.  But  the  latter  thought  of  the 
one  damsel  only.  He  said  many  pleasant  things  to  those 
whom  he  did  see ;  but  his  mind  ran  only  upon  one.  He 
began  to  apprehend  that  she  might  be  among  the  flock 
who  were  destined  to  wait  for  the  second  or  last  day's  vis 
itation  ;  when,  to  his  great  relief,  John  Cross  called  his 
attention  to  the  dwelling  of  the  widow  Cooper,  to  whom 
they  were  fast  approaching. 


100  CHARLEMONT. 

Stevens  remarked  that  the  dwelling  had  very  much  the 
appearance  of  poverty — he  did  not  fail  to  perceive  that  it 
lacked  the  flower-garden  in  front  which  distinguished  the 
greater  number  of  the  cottages  iu  Charlemont ;  and  there 
was  an  appearance  of  coldness  and  loneliness  about  its 
externals  which  impressed  itself  very  strongly  upon  his 
thoughts,  and  seemed  to  speak  unfavorably  for  the  taste  of 
the  inmates.  One  is  apt  to  associate  the  love  of  flowers 
with  sweetness  and  gentleness  of  disposition,  and  such  a 
passion  would  seem  as  natural,  as  it  certainly  would  be  be 
coming,  to  a  young  lady  of  taste  and  sensibility.  But  the 
sign  is  a  very  doubtful  one.  Taste  and  gentleness  may 
satisfy  themselves  with  other  objects.  A  passion  for  books 
is  very  apt  to  exclude  a  very  active  passion  for  flowers,  and 
it  will  be  found,  I  suspect,  that  these  persons  who  are  most 
remarkable  for  the  cultivation  of  flowers  are  least  sensible 
to  the  charms  of  letters.  It  seems  monstrous,  indeed,  that 
a  human  being  should  expend  hours  and  days  in  the  nursing 
and  tendance  of  such  stupid  beauties  as  plants  and  flowers, 
when  earth  is  filled  with  so  many  lovelier  objects  that  come 
to  us  commended  by  the  superior  sympathies  which  belong 
to  humanity.  Our  cities  are  filled  with  the  sweetest 
orphans  —  flowers  destined  to  be  immortal ;  angels  in  form, 
that  might  be  angels  in  spirit  —  that  must  be,  whether  for 
good  or  evil — whom  we  never  cultivate — whom  we  suffer 
to  escape  our  tendance,  and  leave  to  the  most  pitiable  ig 
norance,  and  the  most  wretched  emergencies  of  want.  The 
life  that  is  wasted  upon  dahlias,  must,  prima  facie,  be  the 
life  of  one  heartless  and  insensible,  and  most  probably, 
brutish  in  a  high  degree. 

But  Alfred  Stevens  had  very  little  time  for  further  reflec 
tion.  They  were  at  the  door  of  the  cottage.  Never  did 
the  widow  Cooper  receive  her  parson  in  more  tidy  trim, 
and  with  an  expression  of  less  qualified  delight.  She  brought 
forth  the  best  chair,  brushed  the  deerskin-sent  with  her 
apron,  and  having  adjusted  the  old  man  to  her  own  satis- 


PAROCHIAL  PERFORMANCES.  101 

faction  as  well  as  his,  she  prepared  to  do  a  like  office  for 
the  young  one.  Having  seated  them  fairly,  and  smoothed 
her  apron,  and  gone  through  the  usual  preliminaries,  and 
placed  herself  a  little  aloof,  on  a  third  seat,  and  rubbed  her 
hands,  and  struggled  into  a  brief  pause  in  her  brisk  action, 
she  allowed  her  tongue  to  do  the  office  for  which  her  whole 
soul  was  impatient. 

"  Oh,  Brother  Cross,  what  a  searching  sermon  you  gave 
us  yesterday.  You  stirred  the  hearts  of  everybody,  I  war 
rant  you,  as  you  stirred  up  mine.  We've  been  a  needing  it 
for  a  precious  long  time,  I  tell  you  ;  and  there's  no  knowing 
what  more's  a  wanting  to  make  us  sensible  to  the  evil  that's 
in  us.  I  know  from  myself  what  it  is,  and  I  guess  from  the 
doings  of  others.  We're  none  of  us  perfect,  that's  certain  ; 
but  it's  no  harm  to  say  that  some's  more  and  some's  not  so 
perfect  as  others.  There's  a  difference  in  sin,  Brother 
Cross,  I'm  a  thinking,  and  I'd  like  you  to  explain  why,  and 
what's  the  difference.  One  won't  have  so  much,  and  one 
will  have  more  ;  one  will  take  a  longer  spell  of  preaching, 
and  half  the  quantity  will  be  a  dose  to  work  another  out 
clean,  entire.  I'm  not  boastful  for  myself,  Brother  Cross, 
but  I  do  say,  I'd  give  up  in  despair  if  I  thought  it  took 
half  so  much  to  do  me,  as  it  would  take  for  a  person  like 
that  Mrs.  Thackeray." 

a  Sister  Cooper,"  said  brother  Cross,  rebukingly,  "  be 
ware  of  the  temptation  to  vain-glory.  Be  not  like  the 
Pharisee,  disdainful  of  the  publican.  To  be  too  well  pleased 
with  one's  self  is  to  be  displeasing  to  the  Lord." 

"  Oh,  Brother  Cross,  don't  be  thinking  that  I'm  over  and 
above  satisfied  with  the  goodness  that's  in  me.  I  know  I'm 
not  so  good.  I  have  a  great  deal  of  evil ;  but  then  it  seems 
to  me  there's  a  difference  in  good  and  a  difference  in  evil. 
One  has  most  of  one  and  one  has  most  of  another.  None 
of  us  have  much  good,  and  all  of  us  have  a  great  deal  of 
sin.  God  help  me,  for  I  need  his  help — I  have  my  own 


102  CHARLEMONT. 

share  ;  but  as  for  that  Mrs.  Thackeray,  she's  as  full  of  wick 
edness  as  an  an  egg's  full  of  meat." 

"It  is  not  the  part. of  Christianity,  Sister  Cooper,"  said 
-  j^  John  Cross  mildly,  "  to  look  into  our  neighbors'  accounts 
and  make  comparisons  between  their  doings  and  our  own. 
We  can  only  do  so  at  great  risk  of  making  a  false  reckon 
ing.  Besides,  Sister  Cooper,  it  is  business  enough  on  our 
hands,  if  we  see  to  our  own  short-comings.  As  for  Mrs. 
Thackeray,  I  have  no  doubt  she's  no  better  than  the  rest 
of  us,  and  we  are  all,  as  you  said  before,  children  of  suffer 
ing,  and  prone  to  sin  as  certain  as  that  the  sparks  fly  up 
ward.  We  must  only  watch  and  pray  without  ceasing, 
particularly  that  we  may  not  deceive  ourselves  with  the 
most  dangerous  sin  of  being  too  sure  of  our  own  works. 
The  good  deeds  that  we  boast  of  so  much  in  our  earthly 
day  will  shrivel  and  shrink  up  at  the  last  account  to  so  small 
a  size  that  the  best  of  us,  through  shame  and  confusion, 
will  be  only  too  ready  to  call  upon  the  rocks  and  hills  to 
cover  us.  We  are  very  weak  and  foolish  all,  Sister  Cooper. 
We  can't  believe  ourselves  too  weak,  or  too  mean,  or  too 
sinful.  To  believe  this  with  all  our  hearts,  and  to  try  to 
be  better  with  all  our  strength,  is  the  true  labor  of  religion. 
God  send  it  to  us,  in  all  its  sweetness  and  perfection,  so 
that  we  may  fight  the  good  fight  without  ceasing." 

"  But  if  you  could  only  hear  of  the  doings  of  Mrs.  Thack 
eray,  Brother  Cross,  you'd  see  how  needful  it  would  be  to 
put  forth  all  your  strength  to  bring  her  back  to  the  right 
path." 

"  The  Lord  will  know.  None  of  us  can  hide  our  evil 
from  the  eyes  of  the  Lord.  I  will  strive  with  our  sister, 
when  I  seek  her,  which  will  be  this  very  noon,  but  it  is  of 
yourself,  Sister  Cooper,  and  your  daughter  Margaret,  that  I 
would  speak.  Where  is  she  that  I  see  her  not  ?" 

This  was  the  question  that  made  our  quasi  hierophant 
look  up  with  a  far  greater  degree  of  interest  than  he  had 
felt  in  the  long  and  random  twattle  to  which  he  had  been 


PAROCHIAL   PERFORMANCES.  103 

compelled  to  listen.  Where  was  she  —  that  fair  daughter  ? 
He  was  impatient  for  the  answer.  But  he  was  not  long 
detained  in  suspense.  Next  to  her  neighbors  there  was  no 
subject  of  whom  the  mother  so  loved  to  speak  as  the  daugh 
ter,  and  the  daughter's  excellences. 

"  Ah  !  she  is  up-stairs,  at  her  books,  as  usual.  She  does 
so  love  them  books,  Brother  Cross,  I'm  afraid  it'll  do  harm 
to  her  health.  She  cares  for  nothing  half  so  well.  Morn 
ing,  noon,  and  night,  all  the  same,  you  find  her  poring 
over  them ;  and  even  when  she  goes  out  to  ramble,  she 
must  have  a  book,  and  she  wants  no  other  company.  For 
my  part  I  can't  see  what  she  finds  in  them  to  love  so ;  for 
except  to  put  a  body  to  sleep  I  never  could  see  the  use 
they  were  to  any  person  yet." 

"  Books  are  of  two  kinds,"  said  Brother  Cross  gravely. 
"  They  are  useful  or  hurtful.  The  useful  kinds  are  good, 
the  hurtful  kinds  are  bad.  The  Holy  Bible  is  the  first 
book,  and  the  only  book,  as  I  reckon  it  will  be  the  book 
that'll  live  longest.  The  '  Life  of  Whitefield '  is  a  good  book, 
and  I  can  recommend  the  sermons  of  that  good  man,  Brother 
Peter  Cummins,  that  preached  when  I  was  a  lad,  all  along 
through  the  back  parts  of  North  Carolina,  into  South  Caro 
lina  and  Georgia.  I  can't  say  that  he  came  as  far  back  into 
the  west  as  these  parts  ;  but  he  was  a  most  faithful  shep 
herd.  There  was  a  book  of  his  sermons  printed  for  the 
benefit  of  his  widow  and  children.  He  died,  like  that  blessed 
man,  John  Rogers,  that  we  see  in  the  primer-books,  leaving 
a  wife  with  eleven  children  and  one  at  the  breast.  His 
sermons  are  very  precious  reading.  One  of  them  in  par 
ticular,  on  the  Grace  of  God,  is  a  very  falling  of  manna  in 
the  wilderness.  It  freshens  the  soul,  and  throws  light  upon 
the  dark  places  in  the  wilderness.  Ah  !  if  only  such  books 
were  printed,  what  a  precious  world  for  poor  souls  it  would 
be.  But  they  print  a  great  many  bad  books  now-a-days." 

The  natural  love  of  mischief  which  prevailed  in  the  bosom 
of  Alfred  Stevens  now  prompted  him  to  take  part  in  the 


104  CHARLEMONT. 

conversation  at  this  liappy  moment.  The  opportunity  was 
a  tempting  one. 

"  The  printers,"  said  he,  "  are  generally  very  bad  men. 
They  call  themselves  devils,  and  take  young  lads  and  bring 
them  up  to  their  business  under  that  name  !" 

The  old  lady  threw  up  her  hands,  and  John  Cross,  to 
whom  this  intelligence  was  wholly  new,  inquired  with  a  sort 
of  awe-struck  gravity  — 

"  Can  this  be  true,  Alfred  Stevens  ?  Is  this  possible  ?" 

"  The  fact,  sir.  They  go  by  no  other  name  among  them 
selves  ;  and  you  may  suppose,  if  they  are  not  ashamed  of 
the  name,  they  are  not  unwilling  to  perform  the  doings  of 
the  devil.  Indeed,  they  are  busy  doing  his  business  from 
morning  to  night  —  and  night  to  morning.  They  don't  stop 
for  the  sabbath.  They  work  on  Sunday  the  same  as  any 
other  day,  and  if  they  take  any  rest  at  all  it  is  on  Saturday, 
which  would  show  them  to  be  a  kind  of  Jews." 

"  Good  Lord  deliver  us  !"  ejaculated  the  widow. 

"  Where,  0  !  where  ?"  exclaimed  the  Brother  Cross  with 
similar  earnestness.  The  game  was  too  pleasant  for  Alfred 
Stevens.  He  pursued  it. 

"  In  such  cities,"  he  continued,  "  as  New  York  and  Phil 
adelphia,  thousands  of  these  persons  are  kept  in  constant 
employ  sending  forth  those  books  of  falsehood  and  folly 
which  fill  the  hearts  of  the  young  with  vain  imaginings,  and 
mislead  the  footsteps  of  the  unwary.  In  one  of  these  estab 
lishments,  four  persons  preside,  who  are  considered  broth 
ers  ;  but  they  are  brothers  in  sin  only,  and  are  by  some  sup 
posed  to  be  no  other.  They  have  called  themselves  after 
the  names  of  saints  and  holy  men ;  even  the  names  of  the 
thrice  blessed  apostles,  John  and  James,  have  been  in  this 
fashion  abused  ;  but  if  it  be  true  that  the  spirits  of  evil  may 
even  in  our  day  as  of  old  embody  themselves  in  mortal  shape 
for  the  better  enthralling  and  destruction  of  mankind,  then 
should  I  prefer  to  believe  that  these  persons  were  no  other 
than  the  evil  demons  who  ruled  in  Ashdod  and  Assyria. 


PAROCHIAL  PERFORMANCES.  105 

Such  is  their  perseverance  in  evil  —  such  their  busy  indus 
try,  which  keeps  a  thousand  authors  (which  is  but  another 
name  for  priests  and  prophets)  constantly  at  work  to  frame 
cunning  falsehoods  and  curious  devices,  and  winning  fancies, 
which  when  printed  and  .made  into  books,  turn  the  heads 
of  the  young  and  unwary,  and  blind  the  soul  to  the  wrath 
which  is  to  come." 

The  uplifted  hands  of  the  widow  Cooper  still  attested  her 
wonder. 

"Lord  save  us!"  she  exclaimed,  "I  should  not  think  it 
strange  if  Sister  Thackeray  had  some  of  these  very  books. 
Do  ask,  Brother  Cross,  when  you  go  to  see  her.  She  speaks 
much  of  books,  and  I  see  her  reading  them  whenever  I  look 
in  at  the  back  window." 

John  Cross  did  not  seem  to  give  any  heed  to  the  remark 
of  the  old  woman.  There  was  a  theological  point  involved 
in  one  of  the  remarks  of  Alfred  Stevens  which  he  evidently 
regarded  as  of  the  first  importance. 

"  What  you  say,  Alfred  Stevens,  is  very  new  and  very 
strange  to  me,  and  I  should  think  from  what  I  already  know 
of  the  evil  which  is  sometimes  put  in  printed  books,  that 
there  was  indeed  a  spirit  of  malice  at  work  in  this  way,  to 
help  the  progress  and  the  conquests  of  Satan  among  our 
blind  and  feeble  race.  But  I  am  not  prepared  to  believe 
that  God  has  left  it  to  Satan  to  devise  so  fearful  a  scheme 
for  prosecuting  his  evil  designs  as  that  of  making  the  demons 
of  Ashdod  and  Assyria  take  the  names  of  mortal  men,  while 
seeming  to  follow  mortal  occupations.  It  would  be  fearful 
tidings  for  our  poor  race  were  this  so.  But  if  so,  is  it  not- 
seen  that  there  is  a  difference  in  the  shapes  of  these  persons. 
If  either  of  these  brothers  who  blasphemously  call  them 
selves  John  and  James,  after  the  manner  of  the  apostles,  shall 
be  in  very  truth  and  certainty  that  Dagon  of  the  Philistines 
whom  Jehovah  smote  before  his  altar,  will  he  not  be  made 
fishlike  from  the  waist  downward,  and  will  this  not  be  seen 
by  his  followers  and  some  of  the  thousands  whom  he  daily 

5* 


106  CHARLEMONT. 

perverts  to  his  evil  purposes  and  so  leads  to  eternal  de 
struction  ?" 

"  It  may  be  that  it  is  permitted  to  sucli  a  demon  to  put 
on  what  shape  he  thinks  proper,"  replied  Stevens ;  "  but 
even  if  it  is  not,  yet  this  would  not  be  the  subject  of  any 
difference  —  it  would  scarcely  prevent  the  prosecution  of 
this  evil  purpose.  You  are  to  remember,  Mr.  Cross — " 

"John  Cross  —  plain  John  Cross,  Alfred  Stevens,"  was 
the  interruption  of  the  preacher. 

"  You  are  to  remember,"  Stevens  resumed,  "  that  when 
the  heart  is  full  of  sin,  the  eyes  are  full  of  blindness.  The 
people  who  believe  in  these  evil  beings  are  incapable  of 
seeing  their  deformities." 

"That  is  true  — a  sad  truth." 

"  Arid,  again,"  continued  Stevens,  "  there  are  devices  of 
mere  mortal  art,  by  which  the  deformities  and  defects  of  an 
individual  may  be  concealed.  One  of  these  brothers,  I  am 
told,  is  never  to  be  seen  except  seated  in  one  position  at  the 
same  desk,  and  this  desk  is  so  constructed,  as  to  hide  his 
lower  limbs  in  great  part,  while  still  enabling  him  to  pro 
secute  his  nefarious  work." 

"  It's  clear  enough,  Brother  Cross,"  exclaimed  the  widow 
Cooper,  now  thoroughly  convinced  —  "  it's  clear  enough 
that  there's  something  that  he  wants  to  hide.  Lord  help 
us  !  but  these  things  are  terrible." 

"  To  the  weak  and  the  wicked,  Sister  Cooper,  they  are, 
as  you  say,  terrible,  and  hence  the  need  that  we  should  have 
our  lamps  trimmed  and  lighted,  for  the  same  light  which 
brings  us  to  the  sight  of  the  Holy  of  Holies,  shows  us  the 
shape  of  hatefulness,  the  black  and  crouching  form  of  Sa 
tan,  with  nothing  to  conceal  his  deformity.  Brother  Ste 
vens  has  well  said  that  when  the  heart  is  full  of  sin,  the  eyes 
are  full  of  blindness ;  and  so  we  may  say  that  when  the 
heart  is  full  of  godliness,  the  eyes  are  full  of  seeing.  You 
can  not  blind  them  with  devilish  arts.  You  can  not  delude 
them  as  to  the  true  forms  of  Satan,  let  him  take  any  shape. 


PAROCHIAL   PERFORMANCES.  107 

The  eye  of  godliness  sees  clean  through  the  mask  of  sin,  as 
the  light  of  the  sun  pierces  the  thickest  cloud,  and  brings 
day  after  the  darkest  night." 

"  Oh  !  what  a  blessed  thing  to  hear  you  say  so." 

"  More  blessed  to  believe,  Sister  Cooper,  and  believing, 
to  pray  with  all  your  heart  for  this  same  eye  of  godliness. 
But  we  should  not  only  pray  but  work.  Working  for  God 
is  the  best  sort  of  prayer.  We  must  do  something  in  his 
behalf:  and  this  reminds  me,  Sister  Cooper,  that  if  there  is 
so  much  evil  spread  abroad  in  these  books,  we  should  look 
needfully  into  the  character  of  such  as  fall  into  the  hands 
of  the  young  and  the  unmindful  of  our  flock." 

"  That  is  very  true  ;  that  is  just  what  I  was  thinking  of, 
Brother  Cross.  You  can  not  look  too  close,  I'm  thinking 
into  such  books  as  you'll  find  at  the  house  of  Widow  Thacke 
ray.  I  can  give  a  pretty  'cute  guess  where  she  gets  all  that 
sort  of  talk,  that  seems  so  natural  at  the  end  of  her  tongue." 

"  Verily,  I  will  speak  with  Sister  Thackeray  on  this  sub 
ject,"  responded  the  pastor  —  "but  your  own  books,  Sister 
Cooper,  and  those  of  your  daughter  Margaret  —  if  it  is 
convenient,  I  should  prefer  to  examine  them  now  while  I 
am  here." 

"  What !  Margaret's  books  !  examine  Margaret's  books !" 

"  Even  so,  while  I  am  present  and  while  Brother  Stevens 
is  here,  also,  to  give  me  his  helping  counsel  in  the  way  of 
judgment." 

"  Why,  bless  us,  Brother  Cross,  you  don't  suppose  that 
my  daughter  Margaret  would  keep  any  but  the  properest 
books  ?  she's  too  sensible,  I  can  tell  you,  for  that.  She's 
no  books  but  the  best ;  none,  I'll  warrant  you,  like  them 
you'll  find  at  Widow  Thackeray's.  She's-  not  to  be  put  off 
with  bad  books.  She  goes  through  'em  with  a  glance  of 
the  eye.  Ah !  she's  too  smart  to  be  caught  by  the  contri 
vances  of  those  devils,  though  in  place  of  four  brothers  there 
was  four  thousand,  of  'em.  No,  no  !  let  her  alone  for  that 
—  she's  a  match  for  the  best  of  'em?" 


108  CHAELEMONT. 

"  But  as  Brother  Stevens  said,"  continued  Jolin  Cross, 
"  where  sin  gets  into  the  heart,  the  eye  is  blinded  to  the 
truth.  Now " 

"  Her  eye's  not  blinded,  Brother  Cross,  I  can  tell  you. 
They  can't  cheat  her  with  their  books.  She  has  none  but 
the  very  best.  I'll  answer  for  them.  None  of  them  ever 
did  me  any  harm  ;  and  I  reckon  none  of  them  '11  ever  hurt 
her.  But  I'm  mistaken,  if  you  don't  have  a  real  burning 
when  you  get  to  Mrs.  Thackeray's." 

"But,  Sister  Cooper —     "  commenced  the  preacher. 

"  Yes,  Brother  Cross,"  replied  the  dame. 

"  Books,  as  I  said  before,  are  of  two  kinds." 

"  Yes,  I  know  —  good  and  bad  —  I  only  wonder  there's 
no  indifferent  ones  among  'em,"  replied  the  lady. 

"  They  should  be  examined  for  the  benefit  of  the  young 
and  ignorant." 

"  Oh,  yes,  and  for  more  besides,  for  Mrs.  Thackeray's 
not  young,  that's  clear  enough ;  and  I  know  there's  a  good 
many  things  that  she's  not  ignorant  of.  She's  precious 
knowing  about  many  things  that  don't  do  her  much  good ; 
and  if  the  books  could  unlearn  her,  I'd  say  for  one  let  her 
keep  'em.  But  as  for  looking  at  Margaret's  books  —  why, 
Brother  Cross,  you  surely  know  Margaret  ?" 

The  preacher  answered  meekly,  but  negatively. 

"  Ain't  she  about  the  smartest  girl  you  ever  met  with  ?" 
continued  the  mother. 

"  God  has  certainly  blessed  her  with  many  gifts,"  was 
the  reply,  "  but  where  the  trust  is  great,  the  responsibility 
is  great  also." 

"  Don't  she  know  it  ?" 

"  I  trust  she  does,  Sister  Cooper." 

"  You  may  trust  every  bit  of  it..  She's  got  the  smartness, 
the  same  as  it  is  in  books " 

"  But  the  gift  of  talents,  Sister  Cooper,  is  a  dangerous  gift." 

"I  don't  see,  Brother  Cross,  how  good  things  that  come 
from  God  can  be  dangerous  things." 


PAROCHIAL   PERFORMANCES.  109 

"If  I  could  see  the  books,  Sister  Cooper;  —  I  say  not 
that  they  are  evil " 

John  Cross  began  in  tones  that  denoted  something  like 
despair ;  certainly  dissatisfaction  was  in  them,  when  Alfred 
Stevens,  who  had  long  since  tined  of  what  was  going  on, 
heard  a  light  footfall  behind  him.  He  turned  his  eyes  and 
beheld  the  fair  maiden,  herself,  the  propriety  of  whose 
reading  was  under  discussion,  standing  in  the  doorway. 
It  appeared  that  she  had  gathered  from  what  had  reached 
her  ears,  some  knowledge  of  what  was  going  on,  for  a  smile 
of  ineffable  scorn  curled  her  classic  and  nobly-chiselled 
mouth,  while  her  brow  was  the  index  to  a  very  haughty 
volume.  In  turning,  Alfred  Stevens  betrayed  to  her  the 
playful  smile  upon  his  own  lips  —  their  eyes  met,  and  that 
single  glance  established  a  certain  understanding  between 
them. 

Her  coming  did  not  avail  to  stifle  the  subject  of  discussion. 
John  Cross  was  too  resolute  in  the  prosecution  of  his  sup 
posed  duty,  to  give  up  the  cause  he  had  once  undertaken. 
He  had  all  the  inveteracy  of  the  stout  old  puritan.  The 
usual  introduction  over  and  he  resumed,  though  he  now  ad 
dressed  himself  to  the  daughter  rather  than  the  mother. 
She  scarcely  heard  him  to  the  end. 

"  The  books  were  my  father's,  Mr.  Cross  ;  they  are  valu 
able  to  me  on  that  account.  They  are  dear  to  me  on  their 
own.  They  are  almost  my  only  companions,  and  though  I 
believe  you  would  find  nothing  in  them  which  might  be 
held  detrimental,  yet  I  must  confess,  if  there  were,  I  should 
be  sorry  to  be  made  acquainted  with  the  fact.  I  have  not 
yet  discovered  it  myself,  and  should  be  loath  to  have  it 
shown  by  another." 

"  But  you  will  let  me  see  them,  Margaret  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir,  whenever  you  please.  1  can  have  no  objection 
to  that,  but  if  by  seeing  them  you  only  desire  an  opportu 
nity  to  say  what  I  shall  read  and  what  not,  I  can  only  tell 
you  that  your  labor  will  be  taken  in  vain.  Indeed,  the  evil 


110  CHABLEMONT. 

is  already  done.     I  have  not  a  volume  which  I  have  not 
read  repeatedly." 

It  is  needless  to  add  that  Brother  Cross  was  compelled 
to  forego  his  book  examination  at  the  widow  Cooper's, 
though  strongly  recommended  there  to  press  it  at  Widow 
Thackeray's.  Alfred  Stevens  was  a  mute  observer  during 
the  interview,  which  did  not  last  very  long  after  the  appear 
ance  of  Margaret.  He  was  confirmed  in  all  his  previous 
impressions  of  her  beauty,  nor  did  the  brevity  of  the  con 
ference  prevent  him  from  perceiving  her  intense  self-esteem, 
which  under  certain  influences  of.  temperament  is  only  an 
other  name  for  vanity.  Besides  they  had  exchanged  glances 
which  were  volumes,  rendering  unnecessary  much  future 
explanation.  She  had  seen  that  he  was  secretly  laughing 
at  the  simple  preacher,  and  that  was  a  source  of  sympathy 
between  them.  She  was -very  much  in  the  habit  of  doing 
the  same  thing.  He,  on  the  other  hand,  was  very  well  sat 
isfied  that  the  daughter  of  such  a  mother  must  be  perverse 
and  vain ;  and  he  was  moralist  enough  to  know  that  there 
is  no  heart  so  accessible  to  the  tempter  as  the  proud  and 
wilful  heart.  But  few  words  had  passed  between  them, 
but  those  were  expressive,  and  they  both  parted,  with  the 
firm  conviction  that  they  must  necessarily  meet  again. 


HOW  THE  TOAD  GRIXS  UPON  THE  ALTAR.      Ill 


CHAPTER  IX. 

HOW  THE  TOAD  GRINS  UPON  THE  ALTAR. 

SHALL  we  go  the  rounds  with  our  pastor  ?  Shall  we 
look  in  upon  him  at  Mrs.  Thackeray's,  while,  obeying  the 
suggestion  of  the  widow  Cooper,  he  purges  her  library  of 
twenty  volumes,  casting  out  the  devils  and  setting  up  the 
true  gods  ?  It  is  scarcely  necessary.  Enough  to  know 
that,  under  his  expurgatorial  finger,  our  beloved  and  bosom 
friend,  William  Shakspere,  was  the  first  to  suffer.  Plays ! 
The  one  word  was  enough.  Some  lying  histories  were  per 
mitted  to  escape.  The  name  of  history  saved  them  !  Rob 
inson  Crusoe  was  preserved  as  a  true  narrative  ;  and  Swift's 
Tale  of  a  Tub  escaped,  as  it  was  assumed  (there  being  no 
time  to,  read  any  of  the  books,  and  in  this  respect  John 
Cross  showed  himself  much  more  of  a  professional  critic 
than  he  conjectured)  to  be  a  treatise  on  one  branch  of  the 
cooperage  business,  and  so,  important  to  domestic  mechan 
ics  in  a  new  country.  The  reader  will  remember  the  man 
ner  in  which  the  library  of  the  knight  of  La  Mancha  was 
disposed  of.  He  would  err,  however,  if  he  supposed  that 
John  Cross  dismissed  the  books  from  the  window,  or  did 
anything  farther  than  simply  to  open  the  eyes  of  Mrs.  Thack 
eray  to  the  bad  quality  of  some  of  the  company  she  kept. 
That  sagacious  lady  did  not  think  it  worth  while  to  dispute 
the  ipse  dixit  of  a  teacher  so  single-minded,  if  not  sagacious. 
She  bowed  respectfully  to  all  his  suggestions,  promised  no 
longer  to  bestow  her  smiles  on  the  undeserving — a  promise 


112  CHARLEMONT. 

of  no  small  importance  when  it  is  remembered  that,  at  thirty- 
three,  Mrs.  Thackeray  was  for  the  first  time  a  widow — and 
that  night  she  might  have  been  seen  laughing  heartily  with 
Mesdames  Ford  and  Quickly  at  the  amorous  pertinacity  of 
the  baffled  knight  of  Eastcheap. 

Under  the  paternal  wing  of  John  Cross,  Alfred  Stevens 
obtained  the  desired  entree  into  the  bosom  of  the  flock. 
He  was  everywhere  admitted  with  gladness — everywhere 
welcomed  as  to  a  home  ;  and  the  unsophisticated  old  teacher 
by  whose  agency  this  was  effected,  congratulated  his  con 
gregation  and  himself,  on  leaving  the  village,  that  he  had 
left  in  it  a  person  so  full  of  grace,  and  one  who,  with  the 
blessing  of  God,  was  so  likely  to  bring  about  the  birth  of 
grace  in  others.  The  good  old  man  bestowed  long  and 
repeated  counsels  upon  his  neophyte.  The  course  of  study 
which  he  prescribed  was  very  simple.  The  Bible  was  the 
Alpha  and  the  Omega  —  it  was  the  essential  whole.  It 
would  be  well  to  read  other  books  if  they  could  be  had — 
Clarke  and  Wesley  were,  of  course,  spoken  of — but  they 
could  be  done  without.  The  word  of  God  was  in  the  one 
volume,  and  it  needed  no  help  from  commentators  to  win 
its  way  and  suffice  the  hungering  and  thirsting  soul. 

"  If  you  could  lay  hands  upon  the  book  of  sermons  writ 
ten  by  Brother  Peter  Cummins,  which  his  wife  had  printed, 
I'm  thinking  it  would  serve,  next  to  God's  own  blessed 
word,  to  put  you  in  the  right  way.  It's  been  a  great  help 
ing  to  me,  Alfred  Stevens,  that  same  book  of  sermons  ;  and 
I  reckon  it's  because  it's  so  good  a  book  that  it's  riot  print 
ed  now.  I  don't  see  it  much  about.  But  I'll  get  you  one 
if  I  can,  and  bring  or  send  it  to  you,  soon  enough  to  help 
you  to  the  wisdom  that  you're  a  seeking  after.  If  it  only 
wakes  the  spirit  in  you  as  it  did  in  me — if  it  only  stirs  you 
up  with  the  spirit  of  divine  love — you'll  find  it  easy  enough- 
to  understand  the  teachings  of  the  holy  volume.  All  things 
become  clear  in  that  blessed  light.  By  its  help  you  read, 
and  by  its  working  you  inwardly  digest  all  the  needful 


HOW  THE  TOAD  GRINS  UPOX  THE  ALTAR.      113 

learning.  The  Lord  be  with  you,  Alfred  Stevens,  and  bring 
to  perfect  ripening  your  present  undertaking." 

"  Amen  !"  was  the  solemn  response  of  the  hypocrite,  but 
we  need  not  say  what  an  irreverent  and  unholy  thought  lay 
at  the  bottom  of  his  mind  in  making  this  ejaculation. 

Before  the  departure  of  John  Cross,  the  latter  had  made 
terms  with  Squire  Hinkley  for  the  board  and  lodging  of 
Brother  Stevens  and  his  horse.  Hinkley  would  have  pre 
ferred  taking  nothing,  considering  the  praiseworthy  pur 
pose  of  the  supposed  theological  student ;  but  Stevens 
shrunk  from  receiving  such  an  obligation  with  a  feeling  of 
pride,  which  yet  had.no  scruples  at  practising  so  wretched 
an  imposture.  He  insisted  upon  making  compensation,  or 
upon  leaving  the  house  ;  and,  not  to  incur  this  risk,  Hink 
ley  consented  to  receive  a  weekly  sum  in  payment ;  but  the 
charge  was  considerably  smaller,  as  we  may  suppose,  than 
it  would  have  been  had  the  lodger  simply  appeared  as  an 
inoffensive  traveller,  practising  no  fraud  and  making  no 
professions  of  religion. 

Having  effected  all  these  arrangements,  to  his  own  sat 
isfaction  and  seemingly  that  of  all  others,  John  Cross  de 
parted  once  more  into  the  wilderness  on  his  single-hearted 
ministry  of  love.  A  sturdy  and  an  honest  worker  was  he 
in  the  tabernacle,  with  a  right  mind  if  not  a  very  wise  one  ; 
and  doing  more  good  in  his  generation,  and  after  the  fash 
ion  of  his  strength,  than  is  often  permitted  to  the  stall-fed 
doctors  of  his  vocation. 

The  reader  will  suppose  that  the  old  man  has  been  al 
ready  gone  some  seven  days.  Meanwhile,  the  young  stu 
dent  has  fairly  made  himself  at  home  in  Charlemont.  He 
has  a  snug  room,  entirely  to  himself,  at  Squire  Hinkley's, 
and,  by  the  excellent  care  of  the  worthy  dame,  it  is  pro 
vided  with  the  best  bedding  and  the  finest  furniture.  Her 
own  hands  sweep  it  clean,  morning  and  night,  for  the  in 
cipient  parson ;  she  makes  up  the  bed,  and,  in  customary 
phrase,  puts  it  in  all  respects  to  rights.  His  wants  are  an- 


114  CIIARLEMONT. 

ticipated,  his  slightest  suggestion  met  with  the  most  prompt 
consideration ;  and  John  Cross  himself,  humble  and  unex- 
acting  as  he  was,  might  have  felt  some  little  twinges  of 
mortal  envy  could  he  have  known  that  his  protege  prom 
ised  to  become  a  much  greater  favorite  than  himself. 

This,  indeed,  seemed  very  likely  to  be  the  case.  A  good 
young  man  in  the  sight  of  the  ladies  is  always  a  more  at 
tractive  person  than  a  good  old  man.  Dame  Hinkley, 
though  no  longer  young  herself,  remembered  that  she  had 
been  so,  and  preserved  all  her  sympathies,  in  consequence, 
for  young  people.  She  thought  Alfred  Stevens  so  hand 
some,  and  he  smiled  so  sweetly,  and  he  spoke  so  gently, 
and,  in  short,  so  great  had  been  his  progress  in  the  affec 
tions  of  his  hostess  in  the  brief  space  of  a  single  week,  that 
we  are  constrained  to  confess  ourselves  rejoiced  that  she 
herself  was  an  old  woman,  as  well  on  her  own  account  as 
on  that  of  her  worthy  spouse. 

Her  good  man  was  very  well  satisfied,  whether  from  con 
fidence  or  indifference,  that  such  should  be  the  case.  Her 
attentions  to  the  young  stranger  probably  diverted  them 
from  himself.  But  not  so  with  William  Hinkley — the  son. 
We  have  already  had  Some  glimpses  of  the  character  of 
this  young  man.  We  may  now  add  that  the  short  week's 
residence  of  Stevens  in  Charlemont  had  increased  the  sore 
ness  at  his  heart.  In  that  week  he  had  seen  fairly  estab 
lished  that  intimacy  between  his  rival  and  the  lady  of  his 
love  which  seemed  to  give  the  death-blow  to  any  preten 
sions  of  his.  He  had  seen  them  meet ;  had  seen  them  go 
forth  together ;  beheld  their  mutual  eyes,  and,  turning  his 
own  inward,  saw  how  deeply  his  heart  was  concerned  in 
the  probable  sympathies  of  theirs.  Then,  to  turn  to  his 
own  habitation,  and  to  behold  that,  mother  and  all,  devoted 
to  the  same  absolute  stranger ;  to  pass  unheeded  in  the 
presence  of  those  whom  he  best  loved  —  over  whom  natural 
ties  gave  him  inalienable  rights ;  to  feel  himself  put  aside 
for  one  only  known  of  yesterday ;  to  look  with  yearning, 


HOW  THE  TOAD  GRINS  UPON  THE  ALTAR.       115 

and  meet  eyes  only  of  disregard  and  indifference !  Such 
being  the  suggestions  of  his  jealous  and  suffering  nature,  it 
is  surely  no  matter  of  wonder  that  the  youth  grew  melan 
choly  and  abstracted. 

Our  adventurer  was  snugly  seated  in  the  little  but  select 
chamber  which  had  been  given  him  in  the  house  of  Squire 
Hinkley.  A  table,  neatly  spread  with  a  cotton  cover,  stood 
before  him :  a  travelling-portfolio  was  opened  beneath  his 
hand,  with  a  broad  sheet  of  paper,  already  well  written 
over,  and  waiting  nothing  but  his  signature,  and  perhaps 
the  postscript.  He  was  absorbed  unusually  in  his  cogita 
tions,  and  nibbled  into  bits  the  feathery  end  of  the  gray 
goosequill  of  which  he  had  been  making  such  excellent  use. 
While  he  meditates,  unseeing,  we  will  use  the  liberty  of  an 
old  acquaintance  to  scan  the  letter — for  such  it  is — which 
he  has  been  writing.  Perhaps  we  shall  gather  from  it  some 
matters  which  it  may  concern  us  yet  to  know : — 

"  DEAR  BARNABAS  :  The  strangest  adventure — positively 
the  very  strangest — that  ever  happened  to  a  son  of  Murkey's, 
will  keep  me  from  the  embraces  of  the  brethren  a  few  weeks 
longer.  I  am  benighted,  bewildered,  taken  with  art-magic, 
transmuted,  transmogrified,  not  myself  nor  yet  another,  but, 
as  they  say  in  Mississippi,  '  a  sort  of  betweenity.'  Fancy 
me  suddenly  become  a  convert  to  the  bluest  presbyterian- 
ism,  as  our  late  excellent  brother  Woodford  became,  when 
he  found  that  he  could  not  get  Moll  Parkinson  on  any  other 
terms — and  your  guess  will  not  be  very  far  from  the  true 
one.  I  am  suddenly  touched  with  conviction.  I  have  seen 
a  light  on  my  way  from  Tarsus.  The  scales  have  fallen 
from  my  eyes.  I  have  seen  the  wickedness  of  my  ways, 
and  yours  too,  you  dog ;  and,  having  resolved  on  my  own 
repentance,  I  am  taking  lessons  which  shall  enable  me  to 
effect  yours.  Precious  deal  of  salt  will  it  need  for  that! 
Salt  river  will  fall,  while  its  value  rises.  But  the  glory  of 
the  thing — think  of  that,  my  boy  !  What  a  triumph  it  will 


116  CIIARLEMONT. 

be  to  revolutionize  Murkey's ! — to  turnout  the  drinkers, 
and  smokers,  and  money-changers  ;  to  say,  l  Hem !  my 
brethren,  let  us  pay  no  more  taxes  to  sin  in  this  place !' 
There  shall  be  no  more  cakes  and  ale.  Ginger  shall  have 
no  heat  i'  the  mouth  there ;  and,  in  place  of  smoking  meats 
and  tobacco,  give  you  nothing  but  smoking  methodism! 
Won't  that  be  a  sight  and  a  triumph  which  shall  stir  the 
dry  bones  in  our  valley  —  ay,  and  bones  not  so  dry  ?  There 
shall  be  a  quaking  of  the  flesh  in  sundry  places.  Flam  will 
perish  in  the  first  fit  of  consternation  ;  and  if  Joe  Burke's 
sides  do  not  run  into  sop  and  jelly,  through  the  mere  hu 
mor  of  the  thing,  then  prophecy  is  out  of  its  element  quite. 

"  Seriously,  you  dog,  I  have  become  a  theological  stu 
dent  !  Don't  you  see  proofs  of  my  progress  in  my  unc 
tuous  phraseology.  I  was  taken  suddenly  upon  the  high 
way —  a  brand  plucked  from  the  burning — and  to  be  stuck 
up  on  high,  still  lighted,  however,  as  a  sort  of  lantern  and 
lighthouse  to  other  wayfarers — wandering  rogues  like 
yourself,  who  need  some  better  lights  than  your  own  if  it 
only  be  to  show  you  how  to  sin  decently.  I  am  professedly 
a  convert  to  the  true  faith,  though  which  that  is,  I  think, 
has  not  well  been  determined  among  you  at  Murkey's,  or, 
indeed,  anywhere  else.  I  believe  the  vox  populi,  vox  Dei, 
still  comprises  the  only  wholesome  decision  which  has  yet 
been  made  on  the  subject.  The  popular  vote  here  declares 
it  to  be  methodism ;  with  you  it  is  baptism  or  presbyteri- 
anism — which?  I  am  a  flexible  student,  however,  and 
when  I  meet  you  again  at  Murkey's,  shall  be  prepared  to 
concur  with  the  majority. 

"  But,  in  sober  fact,  I  am  a  professor — actually  recog 
nised  by  my  neighbors  as  one  of  the  elect — set  apart  to 
be  and  do  mighty  things.  How  I  came  so,  will  call  for  a 
long  story,  which  I  defer  to  another  occasion.  Enough  to 
tell  you  that  an  accidental  rencontre  with  a  silly  old 
preacher  (whose  gullet  I  filled  with  raw  brandy,  which  I 
recommended  to  him,  under  another  name,  as  a  sovereign 


HOW  THE  TOAD  GRINS  UPON  THE  ALTAR.      117 

remedy  against  flatulence,  and  which  nearly  strangled  him, 
he  took  such  a  premeditated  swallow),  brought  me  into 
one  of  the  loveliest  little  villages  in  all  this  western  coun 
try,  and  there  I  saw  many  things  —  among  others — a 
woman !  — 

"  A  woman  ! — that  one  word,  you  dog,  will  explain  the 
mystery — will  show  you  why  I  am  thus  transmuted,  trans 
mogrified,  and  in  '  a  state  of  betweenity.'  Nothing  less,  I 
assure  you,  could  make  me  disguise  myself  after  the  pres 
ent  fashion ;  wear  the  sanctimonious  and  sour  phiz  which 
the  common  law  of  modern  religion  prescribes,  and  keep 
me  much  longer  from  the  pleasanter  communion  of  such 
glorious  imps,  as  I  suppose,  are,  even  now,  beginning  to 
gather  in  the  dingy  smoke-room  of  our  sovereign  Murkey. 
But  this  woman,  you  will  ask.  Ay,  ay,  but  you  shall  have 
_no  answer  yet.  It  shall  be  enough  for  you  that  she  is  a 
queen  of  Sheba,  after  her  own  fashion.  A  proud,  impe 
rious,  passionate  creature — tall,  really  beautiful— and  so 
majestic  !  You  should  see  the  flashing  of  her  eyes  to  know 
what  sort  of  a  thing  is  moral  lightning.  Her  face  kindles 
up  in  an  instant.  She  is  an  intensifier,  and  like  most  such, 
cursedly  smart.  Young  too  —  scarce  eighteen,  I  think; 
queer  too — almost  tyrannical  at  times — but  full  of  blood, 
of  unregulated  passions,  moody,  capricious,  and,  of  course, 
easy  game,  if  the  sportsman  knows  anything  of  the  habits 
of  the  bird.  She  is  a  country-girl,  but  no  hoyden.  Her 
intensity  of  character,  her  pride  and  .great  self-esteem,  have 
made  her  a  solitary.  Unsophisticated  in  some  respects,  she 
is  yet  not  to  be  surprised.  In  solitude,  and  a  taste  for  it, 
she  has  acquired  a  sort  of  moral  composure  which  makes 
her  secure  against  surprise.  I  am  really  taken  with  the 
girl,  and  could  love  her,  I  tell  you — nay,  do  love  her — so 
long  as  love  can  keep  himself — out  of  a  state  of  bondage ! 
I  do  not  think,  at  this  moment,  that  I  shall  violate  any  of 
the  laws  of  the  conventicle,  like  small-witted  Brother 
Woodford  ;  though,  so  far  as  the  woman  is  concerned,  I 


118  CHARLEMONT. 

should  leave  it  without  argument  to  the  free  vote  of  all  the 
Lads  of  Fancy  that  ever  gather  round  Murkey's  round 
table,  if  my  justification  for  turning  traitor,  would  not  prove 
immeasurably  more  complete  than  his. 

"  So !  so  !  There  are  bones  enough  for  you  to  crunch, 
you  professional  bandog.  I  had  not  meant  to  tell  you  half 
so  much.  There  is  some  danger  that  one  may  lose  his  game 
altogether,  if  he  suffers  his  nose  to  point  unnecessarily  to 
the  cover  where  it  lies.  I  know  what  keen  scents  are  in 
the  club,  some  of  which  would  be  on  my  track  in  no  time 
if  they  knew  where  to  find  me ;  but  I  shall  baffle  you,  you 
villains.  My  post-town  is  fifty  miles  from  the  place  where 
I  pursue  my  theological  studies  ;  you  are  too  wise  to  attempt 
a  wild-goose  chase.  You  may  smack  your  chaps,  Barney, 
with  envy ;  bite  them  too  if  you  please,  and  it  will  only 
whet  my  own  sense  of  pleasure  to  fancy  your  confusion, 
and  your  hopeless  denunciations  in  the  club.  I  shall  be 
back  in  time  for  term — meanwhile  get  the  papers  in  readi 
ness.  Write  to  me  at  the  post-town  of  Ellisland,  and  re 
member  to  address  me  as  Alfred  Stevens — nay,  perhaps, 
you  may  even  say,  4  Rev.  Alfred  Stevens,'  it  will  grace  the 
externals  of  the  document  with  a  more  unctuous  aspect, 
and  secure  the  recipient  a  more  wholesome  degree  of  re 
spect.  Send  all  my  letters  to  this  town  under  envelope 
with  this  direction.  I  wrote  you  twice  from  Somerville. 
Did  I  tell  you  that  old  Hunks  has  been  deused  liberal  ?  I 
can  laugh  at  the  small  terms,  yet  go  to  Murkey's  and  shine 
through  the  smoke  with  the  best  of  you.  I  solicit  the 
prayers  of  the  Round  Table. 

"  Faithfully,  yours,  &c." 

So  far  our  profligate  had  written  to  his  brother  profligate, 
when  a  tap  was  heard  at  the  entrance  of  his  chamber. 
Thrusting  the  written  papers  into  his  portfolio,  he  rose,  and 
opening  the  door  discovered  his  hostess  at  the  entrance. 

"  I  came,  Brother  Stevens,"  said  the  old  lady,  "  if  you 


HOW   THE   TOAD    GRIXS   UPON   THE   ALTAR.  119 

were  not  too  busy  in  your  studies,  to  have  a  little  talk 
with  you,  and  to  get  your  counsel  upon  a  subject  that  a 
little  distresses  me.  But  you  look  as  if  you  were  busy 
now—" 

"  Not  too  busy,  Mrs.  Hinkley,  to  oblige  you  in  this  or  in 
any  other  respect,"  replied  the  guest  with  suitable  suavity 
of  expression  — "  shall  I  attend  you  down  stairs." 

"  Oh  !  no  !  it  won't  need,"  said  she.  "  I'll  take  a  seat 
with  you  awhile.  We  shall  be  less  liable  to  interruption 
here." 

Stevens  scarcely  repressed  his  smile,  but  the  seniority 
of  the  old  lady  made  her  proceedings  very  innocent,  how 
ever  much  they  might  have  been  adverse  to  the  rules.  He 
threw  wide  the  door,  and  without  more  hesitation  she  fol 
lowed  him  at  once  into  the  chamber. 


120  CI1ARLEMONT. 


CHAPTER   X. 

THE  MOTHER'S  GRIEFS. 

THE  business  upon  which  Mrs.  Hinkley  sought  the 
chamber  of  her  guest  was  a  very  simple  one,  and  easily 
expressed.  Not  that  she  expressed  it  in  few  words.  That 
is  scarcely  possible  at  any  time  with  an  ancient  lady.  But 
the  long  story  which  she  told,  when  compressed  into  in 
telligible  form,  related  to  her  son  William.  She  had  some 
maternal  fears  on  his  account.  The  lad  was  a  decided 
melancholic.  -His  appetite  was  bad ;  his  looks  were  thin 
and  unhappy ;  he  lacked  the  usual  spirit  of  youth ;  he 
lacked  his  own  usual  spirit.  What  was  the  cause  of  the 
change  which  had  come  over  him  so  suddenly,  she  could 
not  divine.  Her  anxiety  was  for  the  remedy.  She  had 
consulted  Brother  Cross  on  the  subject  before  he  departed  ; 
but  that  good  man,  after  a  brief  examination  of  the  patient, 
had  freely  admitted  his  inability  to  say  what  was  the  mat 
ter  with  him,  and  what  was  proper  for  his  cure.  To  the 
object  of  this  solicitude  himself,  he  had  given  much  good 
counsel,  concluding  finally  with  a  recommendation  to  read 
devoutly  certain  chapters  in  Job  and  Isaiah.  It  appears 
that  William  Hinkley  submitted  to  all  this  scrutiny  with 
exemplary  fortitude,  but  gave  no  satisfactory  answers  to 
any  of  the  questions  asked  him.  He  had  no  complaints, 
he  denied  any  suffering ;  and  expressed  himself  annoyed 
at  the  inquisition  into  his  thoughts  and  feelings.  This  an 
noyance  had  been  expressed,  however,  with  the  subdued 


THE  MOTHER'S  GRIEFS.  121 

tones  and  language  of  one  habitually  gentle  and  modest. 
Whenever  he  was  approached  on  the  subject,  as  the  good 
old  lady  assured  her  guest,  he  shook  off  his  questioners 
with  no  little  haste,  and  took  to  the  woods  for  the  rest  of 
the  day.  "  That  day,"  said  she,  "  you  needn't  look  for 
William  Hinkley  to  his  dinner." 

Stevens  had  been  struck  with  the  deportment  of  this 
youth,  which  had  seemed  to  him  haughty  and  repulsive ; 
and,  as  he  fancied,  characterized  by  some  sentiment  of 
hostility  for  himself.  He  was  surprised  therefore  to  learn 
from  the  old  lady  that  the  lad  was  remarkable  for  his  gen 
tleness. 

"  How  long  has  he  been  in  this  way,  Mrs.  Hinkley  ?"  he 
asked  with  some  curiosity. 

"  Well  now,  Brother  Stevens,  I  can't  tell  you.  It's  been 
growing  on  him  for  some  time.  I  reckon  it's  a  matter  of 
more  than  four  months  since  I  first  seen  it ;  but  it's  only 
been  a  few  weeks  that  I  have  spoken  to  him.  Brother 
Cross  spoke  to  him  only  Monday  of  last  week.  My  old* 
man  don't  seem  to  see  so  much  of  it ;  but  I  know  there's 
a  great  change  in  him  now  from  what  there  used  to  be.  A 
mother's  eye  sees  a  great  way  farther  into  the  hearts  of 
her  children,  Brother  Stevens,  than  any  other  persons ;  and 
I  can  see  plainly  that  William  is  no  more  the  same  boy  — 
no !  nor  nothing  like  it  —  that  he  once  was.  Why,  once, 
he  was  all  life,  and  good  humor ;  could  dance  and  sing 
with  the  merriest  among  them ;  and  was  always  so  good 
and  kind,  and  loved  to  do  whatever  would  please  a  body ; 
and  was  always  with  somebody,  or  other,  making  merry, 
and  planning  the  prettiest  sports.  Now,  he  don't  sing,  nor 
dance,  nor  play  :  when  you  see  him,  you  'most  always  see 
him  alone.  He  goes  by  himself  into  the  woods,  and  he'll 
be  going  over  the  hills  all  day,  nobody  with  him,  and  never 
seeming  to  care  about  his  food,  and  what's  more  strange, 
never  looking  at  the  books  that  he  used  to  be  so  fond  of." 

"  He  has  been  fond  of  books,  then  —  had  he  many  ?" 

6 


122  CHAELEMONT. 

"  Oh,  yes,  a  whole  drawer  of  them,  and  he  used  to  get 
them  besides  from  the  schoolmaster,  Mr.  Calvert,  a  very 
good  man  that  lives  about  half  a  mile  from  the  village,  and 
has  a  world  of  books.  But  now  he  neither  gets  books  from 
other  people  nor  reads  what  he's  got.  I'm  dubious,  Brother 
Stevens,  that  he's  read  too  much  for  his  own  good.  Some 
thing's  not  right  here,  I'm  a  thinking." 

The  good  old  lady  touched  her  head  with  her  finger  and 
in  this  manner  indicated  her  conjecture  as  to  the  seat  of 
her  son's  disease.  Stevens  answered  her  encouragingly. 

"  I  scarcely  think,  Mrs.  Hinkley,  that  it  can  be  anything 
so  bad.  The  young  man  is  at  that  age  when  a  change  nat 
urally  takes  place  in  the  mind  and  habits.  He  wants  to 
go  into  the  world,  I  suspect.  He's  probably  tired  of  doing 
nothing.  What  is  to  be  his  business  ?  It's  high  time  that 
such  a  youth  should  .have  made  a  choice." 

"  That's  true,  Brother  Stevens,  but  he's  been  the  apple 
to  our  eyes,  and  we  haven't  been  willing  that  he  should  take 
up  any  business  that  would  carry  him  away  from  us.  He's 
done  a  little  farming  about  the  country,  but  that  took  him 
away,  and  latterly  he's  kept  pretty  much  at  home,  going 
over  his  books  and  studying,  now  one  and  now  another, 
just  as  Mr.  Calvert  gave  them  to  him." 

"  What  studies  did  he  pursue  ?" 

"  Well,  I  can't  tell  you.  He  was  a  good  time  at  Latin, 
and  then  he  wants  to  be  a  lawyer; — " 

«  A  lawyer !"      . 

"  Yes,  he  had  a  great  notion  to  be  a  lawyer  and  was  at 
his  books  pretty  hard  for  a  good  year,  constant,  day  by  day, 
until,  as  I  said  before,  about  four  months  ago,  when  I  saw 
that  he  was  growing  thin,  and  that  he  had  put  down  the 
books  altogether,  and  had  the  change  come  over  him  just 
as  I  told  you.  You  see  how  thin  he  is  now.  You'd  scarce 
believe  him  to  be  the  same  person  if  you'd  seen  him  then. 
Why  his  cheeks  were  as  full  and  as  red  as  roses,  and  his 
eye  was  always  shining  and  laughing,  and  he  had  the  live- 


THE  MOTHER'S  GRIEFS.  123 

liest  step,  and  between  him  and  Ned  Hinkley,  his  cousin, 
what  with  flute  and  fiddle,  they  kept  the  house  in  a  constant 
uproar,  and  we  were  all  so  happy.  Now,  it  isn't  once  a 
month  that  we  hear  the  sound  of  the  fiddle  in  the  house. 
He  never  sings,  and  he  never  dances,  and  he  never  plays, 
and  what  little  he  lets  us  see  of  him,  is  always  so  sad  and 
so  spiritless  that  I  feel  heartsick  whenever  I  look  upon 
him.  Oh  !  Brother  Stevens,  if  you  could  only  find  out 
what's  the  matter,  and  tell  us  what  to  do,  it  would  be  the 
most  blessed  kindness,  and  I'd  never  forget  it,  or  forget 
you,  to  my  dying  day." 

"  Whatever  I  can  do,  Mrs.  Hinkley,  shall  surely  be  done. 
I  will  see  and  speak  with  your  son." 

"  Oh  !  do  —  that's  a  dear  good  sir.  I'm  sure  if  you  only 
talk  to  him  and  advise  him  it  will  do  him  good." 

"  Without  being  so  sure,  ma'am,  I  will  certainly  try  to 
please  you.  Though  I  think  you  see  the  matter  with  too 
serious  eyes.  Such  changes  are  natural  enough  to  young 
people,  and  to  old  ones  too.  But  what  may  be  your  son's 
age." 

"  Nineteen  last  April." 

"  Quite  a  man  for  his  years,  Mrs.  Hinkley." 

"  Isn't  he  ?" 

"  He  will  do  you  credit  yet." 

"  Ah !  if  I  could  believe  so.  But  you'll  speak  to  him, 
Brother  Stevens  ?  You'll  try  and  bring  all  to  rights  ?" 

"  Rely  upon  me  to  do  what  I  can  ;  —  to  do  my  best." 

"  Well,  that's  as  much  as  any  man  can  do,  and  I'm  sure 
I'll  be  so  happy  —  we  shall  all  be  so  much  indebted  to 
you." 

"  Do  not  speak  of  it,  my  dear  madam,"  said  Stevens, 
bowing  with  profound  deference  as  the  old  lady  took  her 
departure.  She  went  off  with  light  heart,  having  great 
faith  in  the  powers  of  the  holy  man,  and  an  equal  faith  in 
his  sincerity. 

"  What  a  bore !"  he  muttered  as  he  closed  the  door  be- 


124  CHARLEMONT. 

hind  her.  "  This  is  one  of  the  penalties,  I  suppose,  which  I 
must  pay  for  my  privileges.  I  shall  be  called  upon  to  re 
form  the  morals  and  manners,  and  look  into  the  petty  cares 
of  every  chuckle-headed  boor  and  boor's  brat  for  ten  miles 
round.  See  why  boys  reject  their  mush,  and  why  the  girls 
dislike  to  listen  to  the  exhortations  of  a  mamma,  who  re 
quires  them  to  leave  undone  what  she  has  done  herself — 
and  with  sufficient  reason  too,  if  her  own  experience  be  not 
wholly  profitless.  Well,  I  must  submit.  There  are  ad 
vantages,  however ;  I  shall  have  other  pupils  to  tutor,  and 
it  shall  go  hard  with  me  if  all  the  grapes  prove  sour  where 
the  vines  are  so  various." 

The  student  of  divinity,  after  these  conclusions,  prepared 
to  make  his  toilet.  Very  few  of  these  students,  in  their 
extreme  solicitude  for  the  well  being  of  the  inner  man, 
show  themselves  wholly  regardless  of  their  externals.  Even 
mourning,  it  appears,  requires  to  be  disposed  by  a  fashion 
able  costumer.  Though  the  garments  to  which  the  necessi 
ties  of  travel  limited  Brother  Stevens  were  not  various,  they 
were  yet  select.  The  good  young  man  had  an  affection  for 
his  person,  which  was  such  certainly  as  to  deserve  his  care. 
On  this  occasion  he  was  more  than  usually  particular.  He 
did  not  scruple  to  discard  the  white  cravat.  For  this  he 
substituted  a  handkerchief  which  had  the  prettiest  sprig  of 
lilac,  on  a  ground  of  the  most  delicate  lemon  color.  He 
consulted  complexions,  and  his  mirror  determined  him  in 
favor  of  this  pattern.  Brother  Stevens  would  not  have 
worn  it  had  he  been  summoned,  in  his  new  vocation,  to 
preach  or  pray  at  the  conventicle ;  nor  would  he  have 
dreamed  of  anything  but  a  black  stock  had  his  business 
been  to  address  the  democracy  from  the  top  of  a  cider-bar 
rel.  His  habits,  under  such  necessities,  would  have  been 
made  to  correspond  with  the  principles  (Qu  ?)  which  sucli 
a  situation  more  distinctly  called  for. 

But  the  thoughts  of  our  worthy  brother  ran  upon  other 
objects.  He  was  thinking  of  Margaret  Cooper.  He  was 


125 

about  to  pay  that  damsel  a  visit.  His  progress,  we  may 
suppose,  had  not  been  inconsiderable  when  we  are  told  that 
his  present  visit  was  one  of  previous  arrangement.  They 
were  about  to  go  forth  on  a  ramble  together  —  the  woods 
were  so  wild  and  lovely  —  the  rocks  surrounding  Charle- 
mont  were  so  very  picturesque ;  —  there  was  the  quietest 
tarn,  a  sort  of  basin  in  the  bosom  of  the  hills  at  a  little  dis 
tance,  which  she  was  to  show  him ;  and  there  was  the 
sweetest  stream  in  the  world,  that  meandered  in  the  neigh 
borhood  ;  and  Brother  Stevens  so  loved  the  picturesque  — 
lakes  embosomed  in  hills,  and  streams  stealing  through  un 
broken  forests,  and  all  so  much  the  more  devotedly,  when 
he  had  such  a  companion  as  Margaret  Cooper. 

And  Margaret  Cooper !  —  she  the  wild,  the  impassioned. 
A  dreamer  —  a  muse  —  filled  with  ambitious  thoughts  — 
proud,  vain,  aspiring  after  the  vague,  the  unfathomable ! 
What  was  her  joy,  now  that  she  could  speak  her  whole  soul, 
with  all  its  passionate  fullness,  to  understanding  ears  !  Ste 
vens  and  herself  had  already  spoken  together.  Her  books 
had  been  his  books.  The  glowing  passages  which  she 
loved  to  repeat,  were  also  the  favorite  passages  in  his  mem 
ory.  Over  the  burning  and  thrilling  strains  of  Byron,  the 
tender  and  spiritual  of  Shelley,  the  graceful  and  soft  of 
Campbell,  she  loved  to  linger.  They  filled  her  thoughts. 
They  made  her  thoughts.  She  felt  that  her  true  utterance 
lay  in  their  language ;  and  this  language,  until  now,  had 
fallen  dead  and  without  fruit  upon  the  dull  ears  of  her  com 
panions  in  Charlemont.  What  was  their  fiddling  and  fes 
tivity  to  her !  What  their  tedious  recreations  by  hillside  or 
stream,  when  she  had  to  depress  her  speech  to  the  base 
levels  of  their  unimaginative  souls !  The  loveliness  of  na 
ture  itself,  unrepresented  by  the  glowing  hues  of  poetry, 
grew  tame,  if  not  offensive ;  and  when  challenged  to  its 
contemplation  by  those  to  whom  the  muse  was  nothing,  the 
fancy  of  the  true  observer  grew  chilled  and  heavy,  and  the 
scenes  of  beauty  seemed  prostituted  in  their  glance. 


126  CHARLEMONT. 

We  have  all  felt  this.  Nothing  can  more  arinoy  the  soul 
of  taste  or  sensibility  than  to  behold  its  favorite  scene  and 
subject  fail  in  awakening  others  to  that  emotion  which  it 
has  inspired  in  ourselves.  We  turn  away  in  haste,  lest 
the  object  of  our  worship  should  become  degraded  by  a 
longer  survey.  Enthusiasm  recoils  at  a  denial  of  sympathy  ; 
and  all  the  worth  of  our  companion,  in  a  thousand  other  re 
spects,  fails  to  reconcile  us  to  his  coldness  and  indifference. 

That  Alfred  Stevens  had  taste  and  talent  —  that  he  was 
well  read  in  the  volumes  which  had  been  her  favorite  study, 
Margaret  Cooper  needed  no  long  time  to  discover.  She 
soon  ascribed  to  him  qualities  and  tastes  which  were  beyond 
his  nature.  Deceived  by  his  tact,  she  believed  in  his  en 
thusiasm.  He  soon  discovered  her  tastes ;  and  she  found 
equally  soon  that  his  were  like  her  own.  After  this  dis 
covery,  she  gave  him  credit  for  other  and  more  important 
possessions ;  and  little  dreamed  that,  while  he  responded 
to  her  glowing  sentiments  with  others  equally  glowing — 
avowed  the  same  love  for  the  same  authors,  and  concurred 
with  her  in  the  preference  of  the  same  passages — his  feel 
ings  were  as  little  susceptible  of  sympathy  with  hers  as 
would  have  been  those  of  the  cold  demon  Mephistopheles ! 
While  her  eye  was  flashing,  her  cheek  flushed,  her  breast 
heaving  with  the  burning  thoughts  and  strains  of  the  mas 
ter  to  whom  her  beautiful  lips  were  giving  utterance,  he 
was  simply  sensible  to  her  beauty — to  its  strange,  wild 
charms — and  meditating  thoughts  from  which  the  soul  of 
true  poetry  recoils  with  the  last  feelings  of  aversion.  Even 
the  passion  which  he  felt  while  he  surveyed  her,  foreign  as 
it  was  to  those  legitimate  emotions  which  her  ambition  and 
her  genius  would  equally  have  tended  to  inspire  in  any 
justly-minded  nature,  might  well  be  considered  frigid — 
regarded  as  the  result  of  deliberate  artifice  —  the  true  off 
spring  of  an  habitual  and  base  indulgence. 

It  was  to  meet  this  unsophisticated,  impassioned,  and 
confiding  girl,  that  Alfred  Stevens  bestowed  such  particu- 


THE  MOTHER'S  GRIEFS.  127 

lar  pains  on  his  costume.  He  felt  its  deficiencies,  and,  ac 
cordingly,  the  necessity  of  making  the  most  of  it ;  for, 
though  he  perfectly  well  knew  that  such  a  woman  as  Mar 
garet  Cooper  would  have  been  the  very  last  to  regard  the 
mere  garment  in  which  a  congenial  nature  is  arrayed,  yet 
he  also  well  knew  that  the  costume  is  not  less  indicative 
of  the  tastes  than  the  wealth  of  the  wearer.  You  will  see 
thousands  of  persons,  men  and  women,  richly  dressed,  and 
but  one  will  be  well  dressed :  that  one,  most  generally,  will 
be  the  individual  who  is  perhaps  of  all  others  possessed  of 
the  least  resources  for  dress,  other  than  those  which  dwell 
in  the  well-arranged  mind,  the  well- disposing  taste,  and  the 
happy,  crowning  fancy. 

His  tasks  of  the  toilet  were  at  length  ended,  and  he  was 
preparing  to  go  forth.  He  was  about  to  leave  the  cham 
ber,  had  already  placed  his  hand  upon  the  latch  of  the  door, 
when  he  heard  the  voice  of  his  hostess,  on  the  stairway,  in 
seeming  expostulation  with  her  son.  He  was  about  to  for 
bear  his  purpose  of  departure  until  the  parties  had  retired, 
when,  remembering  the  solicitude  of  the  lady,  and  thinking- 
it  would  show  that  zeal  in  her  service  which  he  really  could 
not  entertain,  he  determined  at  once  to  join  the  young  man, 
and  begin  with  him  that  certain  degree  of  intimacy  without 
which  it  could  scarcely  be  supposed  that  he  could  broach 
the  subject  of  his  personal  affairs.  He  felt  somewhat  the 
awkwardness  of  this  assumed  duty,  but  then  he  recollected 
his  vocation  ;  he  knew  the  paramount  influence  of  the  clergy 
upon  all  classes  of  persons  in  the  West,  and,  with  the  con 
scious  superiority  derived  from  greater  years  and  better 
education,  he  felt  himself  fortified  in  undertaking  the  pater 
nal  office  which  the  fond,  foolish  mother  had  confided  to  his 
hands.  Accordingly,  descending  the  stairs  briskly,  he  joined 
the  two  at  the  entrance  of  the  dwelling.  The  son  was  al 
ready  on  the  outside ;  the  mother  stood  in  the  doorway ; 
and,  as  Stevens  appeared  and  drew  nigh,  William  Hinkley 
bowed,  and  turned  away  as  if  to  withdraw. 


128  CHARLEMONT. 

"If  you  have  no  objections,  Mr.  Hinkley,"  said  Stevens, 
"  I  will  join  you.  You  seem  to  be  about  to  go  my  way." 

The  young  man  paused  with  an  air  of  reluctance,  mut 
tered  something  which  was  not  altogether  intelligible,  but 
which  Stevens  construed  into  assent,  and  the  two  set  forth 
together — the  good  old  matron  giving  a  glance  of  gratitude 
to  the  benevolent  young  student  which  her  son  did  not  fail 
to  note,  while,  at  the  same  time,  a  sentence  which  evidently 
conveyed  some  motherly  rebuke,  was  addressed  to  his 
already-irritated  ears. 


WRESTLING.  129 


CHAPTER   XI. 

WRESTLING. 

• » 

ALFRED  STEVENS,  as  he  walked  behind  his  young  com 
panion,  observed  him  with  a  more  deliberate  survey  than 
he  had  yet  taken.  Hitherto,  the  young  man  had  challenged 
but  little  of  his  scrutiny.  He  had  simply  noted  him  for  a 
tall  youth,  yet  in  the  green,  who  appeared  of  a  sulky, 
retiring  nature,  and  whose  looks  had  seemed  to  him  on 
one  or  more  occasions  to  manifest  something  like  distaste 
for  himself.  The  complacency  of  Stevens,  however,  was 
too  well  grounded  to  be  much  disturbed  by  such  an  exhi 
bition.  Perhaps,  indeed,  he  would  have  derived  a  mali 
cious  sort  of  satisfaction  in  making  a  presumptuous  lad 
feel  his  inferiority.  He  had  just  that  smallness  of  spirit 
which  would  find  its  triumph  in  the  success  of  such  a  per 
formance. 

He  now  observed  that  the  youth  was  well  formed,  tall, 
not  ungraceful — with  features  of  singular  intelligence, 
though  subdued  to  the  verge  of  sadness.  His  face  was 
pale  and  thin,  his  eyes  were  a  little  sunken,  and  his  air, 
expression,  and  general  outside,  denoted  a  youth  of  keen 
sensibilities,  who  had  suffered  some  disappointment. 

In  making  this  examination,  Alfred  Stevens  was  not 
awakened  to  any  generous  purposes.  He  designed,  in  re 
ality,  nothing  more  than  to  acquit  himself  of  the  duty  he 
had  undertaken  with  the  smallest  possible  exertion.  His 
own  mind  was  one  of  that  mediocre  character  which  the 


J80  CHARLEMONT. 

heart  never  informs.  His  scrutiny,  therefore,  though  it 
enabled  him  to  perceive  that  the  young  man  had  qualities 
of  worth,  was  not  such  as  to  prompt  any  real  curiosity  to 
examine  further.  A  really  superior  mind  would  have  been 
moved  to  look  into  these  resources ;  and,  without  other  mo 
tive  than  that  of  bringing  a  young,  laboring,  and  ardent 
soul  out  of  the  meshes  of  a  new  and  bewildering  thought  or 
situation,  would  have  addressed  himself  to  the  task  with 
that  degree  of  solicitous  earnestness  which  disarms  preju 
dice  and  invites  and  wins  confidence.  But,  with  his  first 
impression,  that  the  whole  business  was  a  "  bore,"  our  be 
nevolent  young,  teacher  determined  on  getting  through  with 
it  with  the  least  possible  effort.  He  saw  that  the  youth 
carried  a  book  under  his  arm,  the  externals  of  which,  so 
uniform  and  discouraging  as  they  appear  in  every  legal 
library,  could  not  well  be  questioned  as  belonging  to  some 
such  venerable  receptacle  of  barbarous  phrase  and  rigid 
authority.  The  circumstance  afforded  him  an  occasion  to 
begin  a  conversation,  the  opening  of  which,  with  all  his 
coolness,  was  a  subject  of  some  awkwardness. 

"  You  seem  a  student  like  myself,  Mr.  Hinkley,  and,  if 
I  mistake  not  from  the  appearance  of  your  book,  you  are 
taking  up  the  profession  which  I  am  about  to  lay  down." 

"  This  is  a  law-book,  sir,"  said  Hinkley,  in  accents  which 
were  rather  meek  than  cold ;  "  it  is  Blackstone." 

"  Ah !  I  thought  as  much.  Have  you  been  long  a  stu 
dent?" 

"  I  may  scarcely  consider  myself  one  yet.  I  have  read, 
sir,  rather  than  studied." 

"  A  good  distinction,  not  often  made.  But,  do  you  in 
cline  to  law  seriously  ?" 

"Yes,  sir — I  know  no  occupation  to  which  I  so  much 
incline." 

"  The  law  is  a  very  arduous  profession.  It  requires  a 
rare  union  of  industry,  talent,  and  knowledge  of  mankind, 
to  be  a  good  lawyer." 


WRESTLING.  131 

"  I  should  think  so,  sir." 

"Few  succeed  where  thousands  fail.  Young  men  are 
very  apt  to  mistake  inclination  for  ability  ;  and  to  be  a  poor 
lawyer — " 

"Is  to  be  worse  than  poor — is  to  be  despicable!"  re 
plied  Hinkley  with  a  half-smile,  as  he  interrupted  a  speech 
which  might  have  been  construed  into  a  very  contemptu 
ous  commentary  on  his  own  pretensions.  It  would  seem 
that  the  young  man  had  so  understood  it.  He  continued 
thus : — 

"  It  may  be  so  with  me,  sir.  It  is  not  improbable  that 
I  deceive  myself,  and  confound  inclination  with  ability." 

"  Oh,  pardon  me,  my  dear  young  friend,"  said  Stevens 
patronizingly  ;  "  but  I  do  not  say  so.  I  utter  a  mere  gen 
erality.  Of  course,  I  can  know  nothing  on  the  subject  of 
your  abilities.  I  should  be  glad  to  know.  I  should  like 
to  converse  with  you.  But  the  law  is  very  arduous,  very 
exacting.  It  requires  a  good  mind,  and  it  requires  the 
whole  of  it.  There  is  no  such  thing  as  being  a  good  law 
yer  from  merely  reading  law.  You  can't  bolt  it  as  we  do 
food  in  this  country.  We  must  chew  upon  it.  It  must  be 
well  digested.  You  seem  to  have  the  right  notion  on  this 
subject.  I  should  judge  so  from  two  things :  the  distinc 
tion  which  you  made  between  the  reader  and  the  student ; 
and  the  fact  that  your  appearance  is  that  of  the  student.  I 
am  afraid,  my  young  friend,  that  you  overwork  yourself. 
You  look  thin,  and  pale,  and  unhappy.  You  should  be 
careful  that  your  passion  for  study  is  not  indulged  in  at 
the  peril  of  your  health." 

The  frame  of  the.  young  man  seemed  to  be  suddenly  agi 
tated.  His  face  was  flushed,  and  a  keen,  quick,  flash  of 
anger  seemed  to  lighten  in  his  eyes  as  he  looked  up  to  the 
paternal  counsellor  and  replied  :  — 

"  I  thank  you,  sir,  for  your  interest,  but  it  is  premature. 
I  am  not  conscious  that  my  health  suffers  from  this  or  any 
other  cause." 


132  CHAELEMONT. 

"  Nay,  my  young  friend,  do  not  deceive  yourself.  You 
perhaps  underrate  your  own  industry.  It  is  a  very  difficult 
matter  to  decide  how  much  we  can  do  and  how  much  we 
ought  to  do,  in  the  way  of  study.  No  mere  thinking  can 
determine  this  matter  for  us.  It  can  only  be  decided  by 
being  able  to  see  what  others  do  and  can  endure.  In  a  lit 
tle  country  village  like  this,  one  can  not  easily  determine  ; 
and  the  difficulty  may  be  increased  somewhat  by  one's  own 
conviction,  of  the  immense  deal  that  one  has  to  learn.  If 
you  were  to  spend  a  year  in  some  tolerably  large  commu 
nity.  Perhaps  you  meditate  some  such  plan  ?" 

"  I  do  not,  sir,"  was  the  cold  reply. 

"  Indeed  ;  and  have  you  no  desire  that  way  ?" 

"  None !" 

"  Yery  strange  !  at  your  time  of  life  the  natural  desire  is 
to  go  into  the  great  world.  Even  the  student  fancies  he 
can  learn  better  there  than  he  can  anywhere  else — and  so 
he  can." 

"  Indeed,  sir  :  if  I  may  be  so  bold  to  ask,  why,  with  this 
opinion,  have  you  left  the  great  city  to  bury  yourself  in  a 
miserable  village  like  Charlernont  ?" 

The  question  was  so  quickly  put,  and  with  so  much  ap 
parent  keenness,  that  Stevens  found  the  tables  suddenly 
reversed.  But  he  was  in  nowise  discomposed.  He  an 
swered  promptly. 

"  You  forget,"  he  said,  "  that  I  was  speaking  of  very 
young  men,  of  an  ambitious  temper,  who  were  seeking  to 
become  lawyers.  The  student  of  divinity  may  very  well 
be  supposed  to  be  one  who  would  withdraw  himself  from 
the  scene  of  ambition,  strifes,  vanities,  and  tumultuous  pas 
sions." 

"  You  speak,  sir,  as  if  there  were  a  material  difference  in 
our  years  ?"  said  Hinkley  inquiringly. 

"  Perhaps  it  is  less  than  in  our  experience,  my  young 
friend,"  was  the  answer  of  the  other,  betraying  that  quiet 
sense  of  superiority  which  would  have  been  felt  more  gall- 


WRESTLING.  133 

ingly  by  Hinkley  had  he  been  of  a  less  modest  nature.  Still, 
it  had  the  effect  of  arousing  some  of  the  animal  in  his 
blood,  and  he  responded  in  a  sentence  which  was  not  en 
tirely  without  its  sneer,  though  it  probably  passed  without 
penetrating  such  a  buff  of  self-esteem  as  guarded  the  sensi 
bilities  of  our  adventurer. 

"  You  are  fortunate  sir,  if,  at  your  time  of  life,  you  have 
succeeded  in  withdrawing  your  thoughts  and  feelings,  with 
your  person,  from  such  scenes  of  ambition  as  you  speak  of. 
But  I  fancy  the  passions  dwell  with  us  in  the  country  as 
well  as  with  the  wiser  people  in  the  town ;  and  I  am  not 
sure  that  therais  any  pursuit  much  more  free  from  their 
intrusion  than  that  of  the  law." 

"  Your  remark  exhibits  penetration,  Mr.  Hinkley.  I 
should  not  be  surprised  if  you  have  chosen  your  profession 
properly.  Still,  I  should  counsel  you  not  to  overwork 
yourself.  Bear  with  me,  sir ;  I  feel  an  interest  in  your  be 
half,  and  I  must  think  you  do  so.  Allow  me  to  be  some 
thing  of  a  judge  in  this  matter.  You  are  aware,  sir,  that  I 
too  have  been  a  lawyer." 

The  youth  bowed  stiffly. 

"  If  I  can  lend  you  any  assistance  in  your  studies,  I  will 
do  so.  _  Let  me  arrange  them  for  you,  and  portion  out  your 
time.  I  know  something  about  that,  and  will  save  you  from 
injuring  your  health.  On  this  point  you  evidently  need  in 
struction.  You  are  doing  yourself  hurt.  Your  appearance 
is  matter  of  distress  and  apprehension  to  your  parents." 

"  To  my  parents,  sir  ?" 

"  Your  mother,  I  mean  !  She  spoke  to  me  about  you  this 
very  morning.  She  is  distressed  at  some  unaccountable 
changes  which  have  taken  place  in  your  manners,  your 
health,  your  personal  appearance.  Of  course  I  can  say 
nothing  on  the  subject  of  the  past,  or  of  these  changes  ;  but 
I  may  be  permitted  to  say  that  your  present  looks  do  not 
betoken  health,  and  I  have  supposed  this  to  be  on  account 
of  your  studies.  I  promised  your  good  mother  to  con- 


134  CHARLEMONT. 

fer  with  you,  and  counsel  you,  and  if  I  can  be  of  any 
help- 

«  You  are  very  good,  sir !"  * 

The  young  man  spoke  bitterly.  His  gorge  was  rising. 
It  was  not  easy  to  suppress  his  vexation  with  his  mother, 
and  the  indignation  which  he  felt  at  the  supercilious  ap 
proaches  of  the  agent  whom  she  had  employed.  Besides, 
his  mind,  not  less  than  his  feelings,  was  rising  in  vigor  in 
due  degree  with  the  pressure  put  upon  it. 

"  You  are  very  good,  sir,  and  I  am  very  much  obliged  to 
you.  I  could  have  wished,  however,  that  my  mother  had 
not  given  you  this  trouble,  sir.  She  certainly  must  have 
been  thinking  of  Mr.  John  Cross.  She  could  scarcely  have 
hoped  that  any  good  could  have  resulted  to  me,  from  the 
counsel  of  one  who  is  so  little  older  than  myself." 

This  speech  made  our  adventurer  elevate  his  eyebrows. 
He  absolutely  stopped  short  to  look  upon  the  speaker. 
William  Hinkley  stopped  short  also.  His  eye  encountered 
that  of  Stevens  with  an  expression  as  full  of  defiance  as 
firmness.  His  cheeks  glowed  with  the  generous  indigna 
tion  which  filled  his  veins. 

"  This  fellow  has  something  in  him  after  all,"  was  the 
involuntary  reflection  that  rose  to  the  other's  mind.  The 
effect  was,  however,  not  very  beneficial  to  his  own  manner. 
Instead  of  having  the  effect  of  impressing  upon  Stevens 
the  necessity  of  working  cautiously,  the  show  of  defiance 
which  he  saw  tended  to  provoke  and  annoy  him.  The 
youth  had  displayed  so  much  propriety  in  his  anger,  had 
been  so  moderate  as  well  as  firm,  and  had  uttered  his  an 
swer  with  so  much  dignity  and  correctness,  that  he  felt 
himself  rebuked.  To  be  encountered  by  an  unsophisticated 
boy,  and  foiled,  though  but  for  an  instant — slightly  esti 
mated,  though  but  by  a  youth,  and  him  too,  a  mere  rustic  — 
was  mortifying  to  the  self-esteem  that  rather  precipitately 
hurried  to  resent  it." 

"You  take  it  seriously,  Mr.  Hinkley.    But  surely  an 


WRESTLING.  135 

offer  of  service  need  not  be  mistaken.  As  for  the  trifling 
difference  which  may  be  in  our  years,  that  is  perhaps  noth 
ing  to  the  difference  which  may  be  in  our  experience,  our 
knowledge  of  the  world,  our  opportunities  and  studies." 

"  Surely,  sir ;  all  these  may  be,  but  at  all  events  we  are 
not  bound  to  assume  their  existence  until  it  is  shown." 

"  Oh,  you  are  likely  to  prove  an  adept  in  the  law,  Mr. 
Hinkley." 

"  I  trust,  sir,  that  your  progress  may  be  as  great  in  the 
church." 

"  Ha !  —  do  I  understand  you  ?  There  is  war  between  us 
then?"  said  Stevens,  watching  the  animated  and  speaking 
countenance  of  William  Hinkley  with  increasing  curi 
osity. 

"Ay,  sir — there  is!"  was  the  spirited  reply  of  the 
youth.  "  Let  it  be  war ;  1  am  the  better  pleased,  sir,  that 
you  are  the  first  to  proclaim  it." 

"  Very  good,"  said  Stevens,  "  be  it  so,  if  you  will.  At 
all  events  you  can  have  no  objection  to  say  why  it  should 
be  so." 

"  Do  you  ask,  sir  ?" 

"  Surely  ;  for  I  can  not  guess." 

"  You  are  less  sagacious,  then,  than  I  had  fancied  you. 
You,  scarce  older  than  myself — a  stranger  among  us  — 
come  to  me  in  the  language  of  a  father,  or  a  master,  and 
without  asking  what  I  have  of  feeling,  or  what  I  lack  of 
sense,  undertake  deliberately  to  wound  the  one,  while  inso 
lently  presuming  to  inform  the  other." 

"  At  the  request  of  your  own  mother !" 

"  Pshaw  !  what  man  of  sense  or  honesty  would  urge  such 
a  plea.  Years,  and  long  intimacy,  and  wisdom  admitted  to 
be  superior,  could  alone  justify  the  presumption." 

The  cheeks  of  Stevens  became  scalding  hot. 

"  Young  man  !"  he  exclaimed,  "  there  is  something  more 
than  this  !" 

"  What !  would  it  need  more  were  our  positions  reversed  ?" 


136  CHARLEMONT. 

demanded  Hinkley  with  a  promptness  that  surprised  him 
self. 

"  Perhaps  not !  would  you  provoke  me  to  personal  vio 
lence  ?" 

"  Ha !  might  I  hope  for  that  ?  surely  you  forget  that  you 
are  a  churchman  ?" 

Stevens  paused  awhile  before  he  answered.  His  eyes 
looked  vacantly  around  him.  By  this  time  they  had  left 
the  more  thickly-settled  parts  of  the  village  considerably 
behind  them.  But  a  few  more  dwellings  lay  along  the  path 
on  which  they  were  approaching.  On  the  left,  a  gorge 
opened  in  the  hills  by  which  the  valley  was  dotted,  which 
seemed  a  pathway,  and  did  indeed  lead  to  one  or  more 
dwellings  which  were  out  of  sight  in  the  opposite  valley. 
The  region  to  which  this  pathway  led  was  very  secluded, 
and  the  eye  of  Stevens  surveyed  it  for  a  few  moments  in 
silence.  The  words  of  Hinkley  unquestionably  conveyed  a 
challenge.  According  to  the  practice  of  the  country,  as  a 
lawyer ,he  would  have  been  bound  to  have  taken  it  as  such. 
A  moment  was  required  for  reflection.  His  former  and 
present  position  caused  a  conflict  in  his  mind.  The  last 
sentence  of  Hinkley,  and  a  sudden  glimpse  which  he  just 
then  caught  of  the  residence  of  Margaret  Cooper,  deter 
mined  his  answer. 

"  I  thank  you,  young  man,  for  reminding  me  of  my 
duties.  You  had  nearly  provoked  the  old  passions  and  old 
practices  into  revival.  I  forgive  you — you  misunderstand 
nie  clearly.  I  know  not  how  I  have  offended  you,  for  my 
only  purpose  was  to  serve  your  mother  and  yourself.  I 
may  have  done  this  unwisely.  I  will  not  attempt  to  prove 
that  I  have  not.  At  all  events,  assured  of  my  own  motives, 
I  leave  you  to  yourself.  You  will  probably  ere  long  feel 
the  injustice  you  have  done  me  !" 

He  continued  on  his  way,  leaving  William  Hinkley 
almost  rooted  to  the  spot.  The  poor  youth  was  actually 
stunned,  not  by  what  was  said  to  him,  but  by  the  sudden 


WRESTLING.  137 

consciousness  of  his  own  vehemence.  He  had  expressed 
himself  with  a  boldness  and  an  energy  of  which  neither 
himself  nor  his  friend,  until  now,  would  have  thought  him 
capable.  A  moment's  pause  in  the  provocation,  and  the 
feelings  which  had  goaded  him  on  were  taken  with  a 
revulsion  quite  as  sudden.  As  he  knew  not  well  what  he 
had  said,  so  he  fancied  he  had  said  everything  precisely 
as  the  passionate  thought  had  suggested  it  in  his  own  mind. 
Already  he  began  to  blame  himself — to  feel  that  he  had 
done  wrong — that  there  had  been  nothing  in  the  conduct 
or  manner  of  Stevens,  however  unpleasant,  to  justify  his 
own  violence ;  and  that  the  true  secret  of  his  anger  was  to 
be  found  in  that  instinctive  hostility  which  he  had  felt  for 
his  rival  from  the  first.  The  more  he  mused,  the  more  he 
became  humbled  by  his  thoughts ;  and  when  he  recollected 
the  avowed  profession  of  Stevens  his  shame  increased.  He 
felt  how  shocking  it  was  to  intimate  to  a  sworn  non-com 
batant  the  idea  of  a  personal  conflict.  To  what  point  of 
self-abasement  his  thoughts  would  have  carried  him,  may 
only  be  conjectured ;  he  might  have  hurried  forward  to 
overtake  his  antagonist  with  the  distinct  purpose  of  making 
the  most  ample  apology  ;  nay,  more,  such  was  the  distinct 
thought  which  was  now  pressing  upon  his  mind,  when 
he  was  saved  from  this  humiliation  by  perceiving  that 
Stevens  had  already  reached,  and  was  about  to  enter  the 
dwelling  of  Margaret  Cooper.  With  this  sight,  every 
thought  and  feeling  gave  place  to  that  of  baffled  love,  and 
disappointed  affection.  With  a  bitter  groan  he  turned  up 
the  gorge,  and  soon  shut  himself  from  sight  of  the  now 
hateful  habitation. 


138  CHARLEMONT. 


CHAPTER   XII.      . 

THE   MASTER  AND   HIS   PUPILS. 

THE  course  of  the  young  rustic  was  pursued  for  half  a 
mile  further  till  lie  came  to  a  little  cottage  of  which  the 
eye  could  take  no  cognizance  from  any  part  of  the  village. 
It  was  embowelled  in  a  glen  of  its  own — a  mere  cup  of 
the  slightly-rising  hills,  and  so  encircled  by  foliage  that 
it  needed  a  very  near  approach  of  the  stranger  before  he 
became  aware  of  its  existence.  The  structure  was  very 
small,  a  sort  of  square  box  with  a  cap  upon  it,  and  con 
sisted  of  two  rooms  only  on  a  ground  floor,  with  a  little 
lean-to  or  shed-room  in  the  rear,  intended  for  a  kitchen. 
As  you  drew  nigh  and  passed  through  the  thick  fringe  of 
wood  by  which  its  approach  was  guarded,  the  space  opened 
before  you,  and  you  found  yourself  in  a  sort  of  amphithe 
atre,  of  which  the  cottage  was  the  centre.  A  few  trees 
dotted  this  area,  large  and  massive  trees,  and  seemingly 
preserved  for  purposes  of  shade  only.  It  was  the  quietest 
spot  in  the  world,  and  inspired  just  that  sort  of  feeling  in 
the  contemplative  stranger  which  would  be  awakened  by 
a  ramble  among  the  roofless  ruins  of  the  ancient  abbey. 
It  was  a  home  for  contemplation — in  which  one  might 
easily  forget  the  busy  world  without,  and  deliver  himself 
up,  without  an  effort,  to  the  sweetly  sad  musings  of  the 
anchorite. 

The  place  was  occupied,  however.  A  human  heart  beat 
within  the  humble  shed,  and  there  was  a  spirit,  sheltered 


THE   MASTER   AND   HIS   PUPILS.    «.  189 

by  its  quiet,  that  mused  many  high  thoughts,  and  dreamed 
in  equal  congratulation  and  self-reproach,  of  that  busy 
world  from  which  it  was  an  exile.  The  visit  of  William 
Hinkley  was  not  paid  to  the  solitude.  A  venerable  man, 
of  large  frame,  and  benignant  aspect,  sat  beneath  an  aged 
tree,  paternal  in  its  appearance  like  himself.  This  person 
might  be  between  fifty  and  sixty  years  of  age.  His  hair, 
though  very  thick  and  vigorous,  was  as  white  as  driven 
snow.  But  there  were  few  wrinkles  on  his  face,  and  his 
complexion  was  the  clear  red  and  white  of  a  healthy  and 
sanguine  temperament.  His  brow  was  large  and  lofty. 
It  had  many  more  wrinkles  than  his  face.  There  were 
two  large  horizontal  seams  upon  it  that  denoted  the  exercise 
of  a  very  busy  thought.  But  the  expression  of  his  eye 
was  that  of  the  most  unembarrassed  benevolence  and  peace. 
It  was  subdued  and  sometimes  sad,  but  then  it  had  the 
sweetest,  playfullest  twinkle  in  the  world.  His  mouth, 
which  was  small  and  beautifully  formed,  wore  a  similar 
expression.  In  short  he  was  what  we  would  call  a  hand 
some  old  gentleman,  whose  appearance  did  not  offend  taste, 
and  whose  kind  looks  invited  confidence.  Nor  would  we 
mistake  his  character. 

This  person  was  the  Mr.  Calvert,  the  schoolmaster  of  the 
village,  of  whom  Mrs.  Hinkley  spoke  to  Alfred  Stevens  in 
discussing  the  condition  of  her  son.  His  tasks  were  over 
for  the  day.  The  light-hearted  rabble  whom  he  taught, 
released  from  his  dominion  which  was  not  severe,  were,  by 
this  time,  scampering  over  the  hills,  as  far  from  their  usual 
place  of  restraint  as  the  moderate  strength  of  their  legs 
could  carry  them.  Though  let  loose,  boys  are  not  apt  to 
feel  their  liberty  in  its  prime  and  freshness,  immediately  in 
the  neighborhood  of  the  schoolhouse.  The  old  gentleman 
left  to  himself,  sat  out  in  the  open  air,  beneath  a  massive 
oak,  the  paternal  stretching  of  whose  venerable  arms  not 
unfrequently  led  to  the  employment  of  the  shade  below  for 
carrying  on  the  operations  of  the  schoolhouse.  There, 


140  CHARLEMONT. 

squat  on  their  haunches,  the  sturdy  boys — germs  of  the 
finest  peasantry  in  the  world — surrounded  their  teacher  in 
a  group  quite  as  pleasing  as  picturesque.  The  sway  of  the 
old  man  was  paternal.  His  rod  was  rather  a  figurative 
than  a  real  existence ;  and  when  driven  to  the  use  of  the 
birch,  the  good  man,  consulting  more  tastes  than  one,  em 
ployed  the  switch  from  the  peach  or  some  other  odorous 
tree  or  shrub,  in  order  to  reconcile  the  lad,  as  well  as  he 
could,  to  the  extraordinary  application.  He  was  one  of 
those  considerate  persons,  who  disguise  pills  in  gold-leaf, 
and  if  compelled,  as  a  judge,  to  hang  a  gentleman,  would 
decree  that  a  rope  of  silk  should  carry  out  the  painful  re 
quisitions  of  the  laws. 

Seated  beneath  his  tree,  in  nearly  the  same  spot  and 
position  in  which  he  had  dismissed  his  pupils,  William 
Calvert  pored  over  the  pages  of  a  volume  as  huge  of  size 
as  it  was  musty  of  appearance.  It  was  that  pleasant  book 
— quite  as  much  romance  as  history — the  "Knights  of 
Malta,"  by  our  venerable  father,  Monsieur  L'Abbe  Vertot. 
Its  dull,  dim,  yellow-looking  pages — how  yellow,  dim,  and 
dull-looking  in  comparison  with  more  youthful  works — 
had  yet  a  life  and  soul  which  it  is  not  easy  to  find  in  many 
of  these  latter.  Its  high  wrought  and  elaborate  pictures 
of  strife,  and  toil,  and  bloodshed,  grew  vividly  before  the 
old  man's  eyes ;  and  then,  to  help  the  illusion,  were  there 
not  the  portraits — mark  me — the  veritable  portraits,  en 
graved  on  copper,  with  all  their  titles,  badges,  and  insignia, 
done  to  the  life,  of  all  those  brave,  grand,  and  famous 
masters  of  the  order,  by  whom  the  deeds  were  enacted 
which  he  read,  and  who  stared  out  upon  his  eyes,  at  every 
epoch,  in  full  confirmation  of  the  veracious  narrative  ? 
No  wonder  that  £he  old  man  became  heedless  of  external 
objects.  No  wonder  he  forgot  the  noise  of  the  retiring 
urchins,  and  the  toils  of  the  day,  as,  for  the  twentieth 
time,  he  glowed  in  the  brave  recital  of  the  famous  siege 
— the  baffled  fury  of  the  Turk — the  unshaken  constancy 


THE   MASTER   AND   HIS   PUPILS.  141 

and  unremittcd  valor  of  the  few  but  fearless  defenders. 
The  blood  in  his  cheek  might  be  seen  hastening  to  and 
fro  in  accordance  with  the  events  of  which  he  read.  His 
eye  was  glowing — his  pulse  beating,  and  he  half  started 
from  his  seat,  as,  hearing  a  slight  footstep,  he  turned  to 
encounter  the  respectful  homage  of  his  former  pupil,  still 
his  friend,  our  young  acquaintance,  William  Hinkley. 

The  old  man  laid  down  his  book  upon  the  grass,  ex 
tended  his  hand  to  his  visiter,  and  leaning  back  against  the 
tree,  surrendered  himself  to  a  quiet  chuckle  in  which  there 
was  the  hesitancy  of  a  little  shame. 

"You  surprised  me,  William,"  he  said;  "when  I  read 
old  Vertot,  and  such  books,  I  feel  myself  a  boy  again.  You 
must  have  seen  my  emotion.  I  really  had  got  so  warm, 
that  I  was  about  to  start  up  and  look  for  the  weapons  of 
war ;  and  had  you  but  come  a  moment  later,  you  might 
have  suffered  an  assault.  As  it  was,  I  took  you  for  a 
Turk — Solyman  himself— and  was  beginning  to  ask  my 
self  whether  I  should  attack  you  tooth  and  nail,  having  no 
other  weapons,  or  propose  terms  of  peace.  Considering 
the  severe  losses  which  you — I  mean  his  Turkish  highness 
— had  sustained,  I  fancied  that  you  would  not  be  disin 
clined  to  an  arrangement  just  at  this  moment.  But  this 
very  notion,  at  the  same  time,  led  me  to  the  conclusion  that 
I  might  end  the  struggle  for  ever  by  another  blow.  A  mo 
ment  later,  my  boy,  and  you  might  have  been  compelled  to 
endure  it  for  the  Turk." 

The  youth  smiled  sadly  as  he  replied :  "  I  must  borrow 
that  book  from  you,  sir,  some  of  these  days.  I  have  often 
thought  to  do  so,  but  I  am  afraid." 

"  Afraid  of  what,  William  ?" 

"  That  it  will  turn  my  head,  sir,  and  make  me  dislike 
more  difficult  studies." 

"  It  is  a  reasonable  fear,  my  son  ;  but  there  is  no  danger 
of  this  sort,  if  we  will  only  take  heed  of  one  rule,  and  that 
is,  to  take  such  books  as  we  take  sweetmeats — in  very 


142  CHARLEMONT. 

small  quantities  at  a  time,  and  never  to  interfere  with  the 
main  repast.  I  suspect  that  light  reading — or  reading  which 
we  usually  call  light,  but  which,  as  it  concerns  the  fate  of 
man  in  his  most  serious  relations,  his  hopes,  his  affections, 
his  heart,  nay,  his  very  people  and  nation — is  scarcely  less 
important  than  any  other.  I  suspect  that  this  sort  of  read 
ing  would  be  of  great  service  to  the  student,  by  relieving 
the  solemnity  of  more  tedious  and  exacting  studies,  if  taken 
sparingly  and  at  allotted  hours.  The  student  usually  finds 
a  recreation  of  some  kind.  I  would  make  books  of  this 
description  his  recreation.  Many  a  thick-headed  and  sour 
parent  has  forced  his  son  into  a  beer-shop,  into  the  tastes 
for  tobacco  and  consequently  brandy,  simply  from  denying 
him  amusements  which  equally  warm  the  blood  and  elevate 
the  imagination.  Studies  which  merely  inform  the  head 
are  very  apt  to  endanger  the  heart.  This  is  the  reproach 
usually  urged  against  the  class  of  persons  whom  we  call 
thorough  lawyers.  Their  intense  devotion  to  that  narrow 
sphere  of  law  which  leaves  out  jury-pleading,  is  very  apt  to 
endanger  the  existence  of  feeling  and  imagination.  The 
mere  analysis  of  external  principles  begets  a  degree  of 
moral  indifference  to  all  things  else,  which  really  impairs 
the  intellect  by  depriving  it  of  its  highest  sources  of  stimu 
lus.  Mathematicians  suffer  in  the  same  way — become 
mere  machines,  and  forfeit,  in  their  concern  for  figures,  all 
the  social  and  most  of  the  human  characteristics.  The 
mind  is  always  enfeebled  by  any  pursuit  so  single  and  ab 
sorbing  in  its  aims  as  to  leave  out  of  exercise  any  of  the 
moral  faculties.  That  course  of  study  is  the  only  one  to 
make  a  truly  great  man,  which  compels  the  mind  to  do  all 
things  of  which  it  is  capable." 

"But  how  do  you  reconcile  this,  sir,  with  the  opin 
ion,  so  generally  entertained,  that  no  one  man  can  serve 
two  masters  ?  Law,  like  the  muse,  is  a  jealous  mistress. 
She  is  said  to  suffer  no  lachesse  to  escape  with  impu 
nity." 


THE  MASTER   AND   HIS  PUPILS.  143 

"  You  mistake  me.  While  I  counsel  one  to  go  out  of 
his  profession  for  relief  and  recreation,  I  still  counsel  but 
the  one  pursuit.  Men  fail  in  their  professions,  not  because 
they  daily  assign  an  hour  to  amusement,  but  because  they 
halt  in  a  perpetual  struggle  between  some  two  leading  ob 
jects.  For  example,  nothing  is  more  frequent  in  our  coun 
try  than  to  combine  law  and  politics.  Nothing  is  more  apt 
to  ruin  the  lawyer." 

"  Very  true,  sir.  I  now  understand  you.  But  I  should 
think  the  great  difficulty  would  be,  in  resorting  to  such 
pleasant  books  as  this  of  Yertot  for  relief  and  recreation, 
that  you  could  not  cast  him  off  when  you  please.  The  in 
toxication  would  continue  even  after  the  draught  has  been 
swallowed,  and  would  thus  interfere  with  the  hours  devoted 
to  other  employments." 

"  There  is  reason  in  that,  William,  and  that,  indeed,  is 
the  grand  difficulty.  But  to  show  that  a  good  scheme  has 
its  difficulties  is  not  an  argument  for  abandoning  it." 

"By  no  means,  sir." 

"  The  same  individual  whom  Yertot  might  intoxicate, 
would  most  probably  be  intoxicated  by  more  dangerous 
stimulants.  Everything,  however,  depends  upon  the  habits 
of  self-control  which  a  man  has  acquired  in  his  boyhood. 
The  habit  of  self-control  is  the  only  habit  which  makes 
mental  power  truly  effective.  The  man  who  can  not  com 
pel  himself  to  do  or  to  forbear,  can  never  be  much  of  a  stu 
dent.  Students,  if  you  observe,  are  generally  dogged  men 
— inflexible,  plodding,  persevering — among  lawyers,  those 
men  whom  you  always  find  at  their  offices,  and  seldom  see 
anywhere  else.  They  own  that  mental  habit  which  we  call 
self-control,  which  supplies  the  deficiency  in  numerous  in 
stances  of  real  talent.  It  is  a  power,  and  a  mighty  power, 
particularly  in  this  country,  where  children  are  seldom 
taught  it,  and  consequently  grow  up  to  be  a  sort  of  moral 
vanes  that  move  with  every  change  of  wind,  and  never  fix 
until  they  do  so  with  their  own  rust.  He  who  learns  this 


144  CHARLEMONT. 

power  in  boyhood  will  be  very  sure  to  master  all  liis  com 
panions." 

The  darker  expression  of  sadness  passed  over  the  coun 
tenance  of  the  ingenuous  youth. 

"  I  am  afraid,"  said  he,  "  that  I  shall  never  acquire  this 
habit." 

"  Why  so  ?     In  your  very  fear  I  see  a  hope." 

"  Alas !  sir,  I  feel  my  own  instability  of  character.  I 
feel  myself  the  victim  of  a  thousand  plans  and  purposes, 
which  change  as  soon  and  as  often  as  they  are  made.  I 
am  afraid,  sir,  I  shall  be  nothing !" 

"  Do  not  despond,  my  son,"  said  the  old  man  sympathi- 
zingly.  "  Your  fear  is  natural  to  your  age  and  tempera 
ment.  Most  young  men  at  your  time  of  life  feel  numerous 
yearnings — the  struggle  of  various  qualities  of  mind,  each 
striving  in  newly-born  activity,  and  striving  adversely. 
Your  unhappiness  arises  from  the  refusal  of  these  qualities 
to  act  together.  When  they  learn  to  co-operate,  all  will 
be  easy.  Your  strifes  will  be  subdued ;  there  will  be  a 
calm  like  that  upon  the  sea  when  the  storms  subside." 

u  Ah !  but  when  will  that  be  ?  A  long  time  yet.  It 
seems  to  me  that  the  storm  rather  increases  than  subsides." 

"  It  may  seem  so  to  you  now,  and  yet,  when  the  strife  is 
greatest,  the  favorable  change  is  at  hand.  It  needs  but  one 
thing  to  make  all  the  conflicting  qualities  of  one's  mind  co 
operate." 

"  What  is  that  one  thing,  sir  ?" 

"  An  object !     As  yet,  you  have  none." 

"  None,  sir !"  • 

"None — or  rather  many — which  is  pretty  much  the 
same  thing  as  having  none." 

"  I  am  not  sure,  sir — but  it  seems  to  me,  sir,  that  I  have 
an  object." 

"  Indeed,  William !  are  you  sure  ?" 

"  I  think  so,  sir." 

"  Well,  name  it." 


THE   MASTER   AND    HIS   PUPILS.  145 

"  I  have  ambition,  sir." 

"  Ah  !  that  is  a  passion,  not  an  object.  Does  your  am 
bition  point  in  one  direction  ?  Unless  it  does,  it  is  object 
less." 

The  youth  was  silent.     The  old  man  proceeded : — 

"  I  am  disposed  to  be  severe  with  you,  my  son.  There 
is  no  surer  sign  of  feebleness  than  in  the  constant  begin 
nings  and  the  never  performings  of  a  mind.  Know  thyself, 
is  the  first  lesson  to  learn.  Is  it  not  very  childish  to  talk 
of  having  ambition,  without  knowing  what  to  do  with  it  ? 
If  we  have  ambition,  it  is  given  to  us  to  work  with.  You 
come  to  me,  and  declare  this  ambition !  We  confer  together. 
Your  ambition  seeks  for  utterance.  You  ask,  *  What  sort 
of  utterance  will  suit  an  ambition  such  as  mine  ?'  To  an 
swer  this  question,  we  ask,  'What  are  your  qualities?' 
Did  you  think,  William,  that  I  disparaged  yours  when  I 
recommended  the  law  to  you  as  a  profession  ?" 

"  No,  sir !  oh,  no  !  Perhaps  you  overrated  them.  I  am 
afraid  so — I  think  so." 

"  No,  William,  unfortunately,  you  do  not  think  about  it. 
If  you  would  suffer  yourself  to  think,  you  would  speak  a 
different  language." 

"  I  can  not  think — I  am  too  .miserable  to  think!"  ex 
claimed  the  youth  in  a  burst  of  passion.  The  old  man 
looked  surprised.  He  gazed  with  a  serious  anxiety  into 
the  youth's  face,  and  then  addressed  him : — 

"  Where  have  you  been,  William,  for  the  last  three  weeks  ? 
In  all  that  time  I  have  not  seen  you." 

A  warm  blush  suffused  the  cheeks  of  the  pupil.  He  did 
not  immediately  answer. 

"  Ask  me  /"  exclaimed  a  voice  from  behind  them,  which 
they  both  instantly  recognised  as  that  of  Ned  Hinkley,  the 
cousin  of  William.  He  had  approached  them,  in  the  ear 
nestness  of  their  interview,  without  having  disturbed  them. 
The  bold  youth  was  habited  in  a  rough  woodman's  dress. 
He  wore  a  round  jacket  of  homespun,  and  in  his  hand  he 

7 


1-16  CHARLEMONT. 

carried  a  couple  of  fishing-rods,  which,  with  certain  other 
implements,  betrayed  sufficiently  the  object  of  his  present 
pursuit. 

"  Ask  me !"  said  he.  "  I  can  tell  you  what  he's  been 
about  better  than  anybody  else." 

"  Well,  Ned,"  said  the  old  man,  "  what  has  it  been  ?  I  am 
afraid  it  is  your  fiddle  that  keeps  him  from  his  Blackstone." 

"  My  fiddle,  indeed  !  If  he  would  listen  to  my  fiddle 
when  she  speaks  ^out,  he'd  be  wiser  and  better  for  it.  Look 
at  him,  Mr.  Calvert,  and  say  whether  it's  book  or  fiddle 
that's  likely  to  make  him  as  lean  as  a  March  pickerel  in 
the  short  space  of  three  months.  Only  look  at  him,  I  say." 

"  Truly,  William,  I  had  not  observed  it  before,  but,  as  Ned 
says,  you  do  look  thin,  and  you  tell  me  you  are  unhappy. 
Hard  study  might  make  you  thin,  but  can  not  make  you  un 
happy.  What  is  it  ?" 

The  more  volatile  and  freespoken  cousin  answered  for  him. 

"  He's  been  shot,  gran'pa,  since  you  saw  him  last." 

"Shot?" 

"Yes,  shot!  —  He  thinks  mortally.  I  think  not.  A 
flesh  wound  to  my  thinking,  that  a  few  months  more  will 
cure." 

"  You  have  some  joke  at  bottom,  Edward,"  said  the  old 
man  gravely. 

"  Joke,  sir  !  It's  a  tough  joke  that  cudgels  a  plump  lad 
into  a  lean  one  in.  a  single  season." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?" 

"  I  mean  to  use  your  own  language,  gran'pa.  Among 
the  lessons  I  got  from  you  when  you  undertook  to  fill  our 
heads  with  wisdom  by  applications  of  smartness  to  a  very 
different  place  —  among  the  books  we  sometimes  read  from 
was  one  of  Master  Ovid." 

"  Ha  !  ha  !  I  see  what  you're  after.  I  understand  the 
shooting.  So  you  think  that  the  blind  boy  has  hit  William, 
eh  ?" 

"  A  flesh  wound  as  I  tell  you ;  but  he  thinks  the  bolt  is 


THE   MASTER   AND    HIS   PUPILS.  147 

in  his  heart.  I'm  sure  it  can  and  will  be  plucked  out,  and 
no  death  will  follow." 

"  Well !  who's  the  maiden  from  whose  eyes  the  arrow 
was  barbed  ?" 

"  Margaret  Cooper." 

"  Ah  !  indeeol !"  said  the  old  man  gravely. 

"  Do  not  heed  him,"  exclaimed  William  Hinkley ;  but 
the  blush  upon  his  cheeks,  still  increasing,  spoke  a  different 
language. 

"  I  would  rather  not  heed  him,  William.  The  passions 
of  persons  so  young  as  yourself  are  seldom  of  a  permanent 
character.  The  attractions  which  win  the  boy  seldom  com 
pensate  the  man.  There  is  time  enough  for  this,  ten  years 
hence,  and  love  then  will  be  far  more  rational." 

"  Ah,  lud  ! — wait  ten  years  at  twenty.  I  can  believe  a 
great  deal  in  the  doctrine  of  young  men's  folly,  but  I  can't 
go  that.  I'm  in  love  myself." 

"You!" 

"  Yes  !  I ! — I'm  hit  too — and  if  you  don't  like  it,  why 
did  you  teach  us  Ovid  and  the  rest  ?  As  for  rational  love, 
that's  a  new  sort  of  thing  that  we  never  heard  about  before. 
Love  was  never  expected  to  be  rational.  He's  known  the 
contrary.  I've  heard  so  ever  since  I  was  knee-high  to  the 
great  picture  of  your  Cupid  that  you  showed  us  in  your 
famous  Dutch  edition  of  Apuleius.  The  young  unmarried 
men  feel  that  it's  irrational ;  the  old  married  people  tell  us 
so  in  a  grunt  that  proves  the  truth  of  what  they  say.  But 
that  don't  alter  the  case.  It's  a  sort  of  natural  madness 
that  makes  one  attack  in  every  person's  lifetime.  I  don't 
believe  in  repeated  attacks.  Some  are  bit  worse  than 
others  ;  and  some  think  themselves  bit,  and  are  mistaken. 
That's  the  case  with  William,  and  it's  that  that  keeps  him 
from  your  law-books  and  my  fiddle.  That  makes  him  thin. 
He  has  a  notion  of  Margaret  Cooper,  and  she  has  none  of 
him ;  and  love  that's  all  of  one  side  is  neither  real  nor 
rational.  I  don't  believe  it." 


148  CHARLEMONT. 

William  Hinldey  muttered  something  angrily  in  the  ears 
of  the  speaker. 

"  Well,  well  !"  said  the  impetuous  cousin,  "  I  don't  want 
to  make  you  vexed,  and  still  less  do  I  come  here  to  talk 
such  politics  with  you.  What  do  you  say  to  tickling  a  trout 
this  afternoon  ?  That's  what  I  come  for." 

"  It's  too  cool,"  said  the  old  man. 

"  Not  a  bit.  There's  a  wind  from  the  south,  and  a  cast 
of  cloud  is  constantly  growing  between  us  and  the  sun.  I 
think  we  shall  do  something — something  better  than  talk 
ing  about  love,  and  law,  where  nobody's  agreed.  You, 
gran'pa,  won't  take  the  love  ;  Bill  Hinkley  can't  stomach 
the  law,  and  the  trout  alone  can  bring  about  a  reconcilia 
tion.  Come,  gran'pa,  I'm  resolved  on  getting  your  supper 
to-night,  and  you  must  go  and  see  me  do  it." 

"  On  one  condition  only,  Ned." 

"  What's  that,  gran'pa?" 

"  That  you  both  sup  with  me." 

"  Done  for  myself.     What  say  you,  Bill  ?" 

The  youth  gave  a  sad  assent,  and  the  rattling  youth  pro 
ceeded  :  — 

"  The  best  cure  of  grief  is  eating.  Love  is  a  sort  of 
pleasant  grief.  Many  a  case  of  affliction  have  I  seen 
mended  by  a  beefsteak.  Fish  is  better.  Get  a  lover  to 
eat,  rouse  up  his  appetites,  and,  to  the  same  extent,  you 
lessen  his  affections.  Hot  suppers  keep  down  the  sensibil 
ities  ;  and,  gran'pa,  after  ours,  to-night,  you  shall  have  the 
fiddle.  If  I  don't  make  her  speak  to  you  to-night,  my 
name's  Brag,  and  you  need  never  again  believe  me." 

And  the  good-humored  youth,  gathering  up  his  canes,  led 
the  way  to  the  hills,  slowly  followed  by  his  two  less  elastic 
companions. 


THE   HISTORY   OF  A   FAILUEE.  149 


CHAPTER   XIII. 

THE   HISTORY   OF  A   FAILURE. 

THE  route,  which  conducted  them  over  a  range  of  gently- 
ascending  hills,  through  groves  tolerably  thick,  an  uncleared 
woodland  tract  comprising  every  variety  of  pleasant  foliage, 
at  length  brought  them  to  a  lonely  tarn  or  lake,  about  a 
mile  in  circumference,  nestled  and  crouching  in  the  hollow 
of  the  hills,  which,  in  some  places  sloped  gently  down  to 
its  margin,  at  others  'hung  abruptly  over  its  deep  and  pen 
sive  waters.  A  thick  fringe  of  shrubs,  water-grasses,  and 
wild  flowers,  girdled  its  edges,  and  gave  a  dark  and  myste 
rious  expression  to  its  face.  There  were  many  beaten 
tracks,  narrow  paths  for  individual  wayfarers  on  foot,  which 
conducted  down  to  favorite  fishing-spots.  These  were 
found  chiefly  on  those  sides  of  the  lake  where  the  rocks 
were  precipitous.  Perched  on  a  jutting  eminence,  and  half 
shrouded  in  the  bushes  which  clothed  it,  the  silent  fisher 
man  took  his  place,  while  his  fly  was  made  to  kiss  the  water 
in  capricious  evolutions,  such  as  the  experienced  angler 
knows  how  to  employ  to  beguile  the  wary  victim  from  close 
cove,  or  gloomy  hollow,  or  from  beneath  those  decaying 
trunks  of  overthrown  trees  which  have  given  his  brood  a 
shelter  from  immemorial  time. 

To  one  of  these  selected  spots,  Ned  Hinkley  proceeded, 
leaving  his  companions  above,  where,  in  shade  themselves, 
and  lying  at  ease  upon  the  smooth  turf,  they  could  watch 
his  successes,  and  at  the  same  time  enjoy  the  coup  d'ceil, 


150  CHARLEMONT. 

which  was  singularly  beautiful,  afforded  by  the  whole  sur 
rounding  expanse.  The  tarn,  like  the  dark  mysterious 
dwelling  of  an  Undine,  was  spread  out  before  them  with  the 
smoothness  of  glass,  though  untransparent,  and  shining  be 
neath  their  eyes  like  a  vast  basin  of  the  richest  jet.  A 
thousand  pretty  changes  along  the  upland  slopes,  or  abrupt 
hills  which  hemmed  it  in,  gave  it  a  singular  aspect  of  vari 
ety  which  is  seldom  afforded  by  any  scene  very  remarkable 
for  its  stillness  and  seclusion.  Opposite  to  the  rock  on 
which  Ned  Hinkley  was  already  crouching,  the  hill-slope  to 
the  lake  was  singularly  unbroken,  and  so  gradual  was  the 
ascent  from  the  margin,  that  one  was  scarcely  conscious  of 
his  upward  movement,  until  looking  behind  him,  he  saw  how 
far  below  lay  the  waters  which  he  had  lately  left. 

The  pathway,  which  had  been  often  trodden,  was  very 
distinctly  marked  to  the  eyes  of  our  two  friends  on  the  op 
posite  elevation,  and  they  could  also  perceive  where  the 
same  footpath  extended  on  either  hand  a  few  yards  from 
the  lake,  so  as  to  enable  the  wanderer  to  prolong  his  ram 
bles,  on  either  side,  until  reaching  the  foot  of  the  abrupt 
masses  of  rock  which  distinguished  the  opposite  margin  of 
the  basin.  To  ascend  these,  on  that  side,  was  a  work  of 
toil,  which  none  but  the  lover  of  the  picturesque  is  often 
found  willing  to  encounter.  Above,  even  to  the  eyes  of  our 
friends,  though  they  occupied  an  eminence,  the  skies  seemed 
circumscribed  to  the  circumference  of  the  lake  and  the  hills 
by  which  it  was  surrounded ;  and  the  appearance  of  the 
whole  region,  therefore,  was  that  of  a  complete  amphithe 
atre,  the  lake  being  the  floor,  the  hills  the  mighty  pillars, 
and  the  roof,  the  blue,  bright,  fretted  canopy  of  heaven. 

"  I  have  missed  you,  my  son,  for  some  time  past,  and  the 
beauty  of  the  picture  reminds  me  of  what  your  seeming  neg 
lect  has  made  me  lose.  When  I  was  a  young  man  I  would 
have  preferred  to  visit  such  a  spot  as  this  alone.  But  the 
sense  of  desolation  presses  heavily  upon  an  old  man  under 
any  circumstances ;  and  he  seeks  for  the  company  of  the 


THE    HISTORY   OF   A    FAILURE.  151 

young,  as  if  to  freshen,  with  sympathy  and  memory,  the 
cheerlessness  and  decay  which  attends  all  his  own  thoughts 
and  fancies.  To  come  alone  into  the  woods,  even  though 
the  scene  I  look  on  be  as  fair  as  this,  makes  me  moody  and 
awakens  gloomy  imaginations  ;  and  since  you  have  been  so 
long  absent,  I  have  taken  to  my  books  again,  and  given  up 
the  woods.  Ah !  books,  alone,  never  desert  us ;  never 
prove  unfaithful;  never  chide  us;  never  mock  us,  as  even 
these  woods  do,  with  the  memory  of  baffled  hopes,  and 
dreams  of  youth,  gone,  never  to  return  again. 

"  I  trust,  my  dear  sir,  you  do  not  think  me  ungrateful. 
I  have  not  wilfully  neglected  you.  More  than  once  I  set 
out  to  visit  you ;  but  my  heart  was  so  full  —  I  was  so  very 
unhappy  —  that  I  had  not  the  spirit  for  it.  I  felt  that  I 
should  not  be  any  company  for  you,  and  feared  that  I  would 
only  affect  you  with  some  of  my  own  dullness." 

"  Nay,  that  should  be  no  fear  with  you,  my  dear  boy,  for 
you  should  know  that  the  very  sorrows  of  youth,  as  they 
awaken  the  sympathies  of  age,  provide  it  with  the  means 
of  excitement.  It  is  the  misfortune  of  age  that  its  interest 
is  slow  to  kindle.  Whatever  excites  the  pulse,  if  not  vio 
lently,  is  beneficial  to  the  heart  of  the  old  man.  But  these 
sorrows  of  yours,  my  son  —  do  you  not  call  them  by  too 
strong  a  name  ?  I  suspect  they  are  nothing  more  than  the 
discontents,  the  vague  yearnings  of  the  young  and  ardent 
nature,  such  as  prompt  enterprise  and  lead  to  nobleness. 
If  you  had  them  not,  you  would  think  of  little  else  than  how 
to  squat  with  your  cousin  there,  seeking  to  entrap  your 
dinner ;  nay,  not  so  much  —  you  would  think  only  of  the 
modes  of  cooking  and  the  delight  of  eating  the  fish,  and 
shrink  from  the  toil  of  taking  it.  Do  not  deceive  yourself. 
This  sorrow  which  distresses  you  is  possibly  a  beneficial 
sorrow..  It  is  the  hope  which  is  in  you  to  be  something  — 
to  do  something  —  for  this  doing  is  after  all,  and  before  all, 
the  great  object  of  living.  The  hope  of  the  heart  is  always 
a  discontent  —  most  generally  a  wholesome  discontent  — 


152  CHARLEMONT. 

sometimes  a  noble  discontent  leading  to  nobleness.  It  is 
to  be  satisfied  rather  than  nursed.  You  must  do  what  it 
requires." 

"  I  know  not  what  it  requires." 

"  Your  doing-  then  must  be  confined  at  present  to  finding 
out  what  that  is." 

"  Alas !  sir,  it  seems  to  me  as  if  I  could  no  more  think 
than  I  can  do" 

"  Very  likely ;  —  that  is  the  case  at  present ;  and  there 
are  several  reasons  for  this  feebleness.  The  energies  which 
have  not  yet  been  tasked,  do  not  know  well  how  to  begin. 
You  have  been  a  favored  boy.  Your  wants  have  been 
well  provided  for.  Your  parents  have  loved  you  only  too 
much." 

"  Too  much !  Why,  even  now,  I  am  met  with  cold  looks 
and  reproachful  words,  on  account  of  this  stranger,  of  whom 
nobody  knows  anything." 

"  Even  so :  suppose  that  to  be  the  case,  my  son ;  still  it 
does  not  alter  the  truth  of  what  I  say.  You  can  not  ima 
gine  that  your  parents  prefer  this  stranger  to  yourself,  un 
less  you  imagine  them  to  have  undergone  a  very  sudden 
change  of  character.  They  have  always  treated  you  ten 
derly —  too  tenderly." 

"  Too  tenderly,  sir  ?" 

"Yes,  William,  too  tenderly.  Their  tenderness  has 
enfeebled  you,  and  that  is  the  reason  you  know  not  in  what 
way  to  begin  to  dissipate  your  doubts,  and  apply  your 
energies.  If  they  reproach  you,  that  is  because  they  have 
some  interest  in  you,  and  a  right  in  you,  which  constitutes 
their  interest.  If  they  treat  the  stranger  civilly,  it  is  be 
cause  he  is  a  stranger." 

"  Ay,  sir,  but  what  if  they  give  this  stranger  authority 
to  question  and  to  counsel  me  ?  Is  not  this  a  cruel  indig 
nity  ?" 

"  Softly,  William,  softly !  There  is  something  at  the 
bottom  of  this  which  I  do  not  see,  and  which  perhaps  you 


THE   HISTORY   OF  A   FAILURE.  158 

do  not  see.  If  your  parents  employ  a  stranger  to  counsel 
you,  it  proves  that  something  in  your  conduct  leads  them 
to  think  that  you  need  counsel.'' 

"  That  may  be,  sir ;  but  why  not  give  it  themselves  ? 
why  employ  a  person  of  whom  nobody  knows  anything  ?" 

"  I  infer  from  your  tone,  my  son,  rather  than  your  words, 
that  you  have  some  dislike  to  this  stranger. 

"  No,  sir "  was  the  beginning  of  the  young  man's 

reply,  but  he  stopped  short  with  a  guilty  consciousness. 
A  warm  blush  overspread  his  cheek,  and  he  remained  silent. 
The  old  man,  without  seeming  to  perceive  the  momentary 
interruption,  or  the  confusion  which  followed  it,  proceeded 
in  his  commentary. 

"  There  should  be  nothing,  surely,  to  anger  you  in  good 
counsel,  spoken  even  by  a  stranger,  my  son ;  and  even 
where  the  counsel  be  not  good,  if  the  motive  be  so,  it  re 
quires  our  gratitude  though  it  may  not  receive  our  adop 
tion." 

"  I  don't  know,  sir,  but  it  seems  to  me  very  strange,  and 
is  very  humiliating,  that  I  should  be  required  to  submit  to 
the  instructions  of  one  of  whom  we  know  nothing,  and  who 
is  scarcely  older  than  myself." 

"  It  may  be  mortifying  to  your  self-esteem,  my  son,  but 
self-esteem,  when  too  active,  is  compelled  constantly  to 
suffer  this  sort  of  mortification.  It  may  be  that  one  man 
shall  not  be  older  in  actual  years  than  another,  yet  be  able 
to  teach  that  other.  Merely  living,  days  and  weeks  and 
months,  constitutes  no  right  to  wisdom ;  it  is  the  crowding 
events  and  experience  —  the  indefatigable  industry  —  the 
living  actively  and  well  —  that  supply  us  with  the  materials 
for  knowing  and  teaching.  In  comparison  with  millions 
of  your  own  age,  who  have  lived  among  men,  and  shared 
in  their  strifes  and  troubles,  you  would  find  yourself  as 
feeble  a  child  as  ever  yet  needed  the  helping  hand  of  coun 
sel  and  guardianship ;  and  this  brings  me  back  to  what  I 
said  before.  Your  parents  have  treated  you  too  tenderly. 

7* 


154  CHARLEMONT. 

They  have  done  everything  for  you.  You  have  done  nothing 
for  yourself.  They  provide  for  your  wants,  hearken  to 
your  complaints,  nurture  you  in  sickness,  with  a  diseasing 
fondness,  and  so  render  you  incapable.  Hence  it  is,  that, 
in  the  toils  of  manhood,  you  do  not  know  how  to  begin. 
You  lack  courage  and  perseverance." 

"  Courage  and  perseverance  !"  was  the  surprised  excla 
mation  of  the  youth. 

"  Precisely,  and  lest  I  should  offend  you,  my  son,  I  must 
acknowledge  to  you  beforehand,  that  this  very  deficiency 
was  my  own." 

"  Yours,  sir  ?  I  can  not  think  it.    What !  lack  courage  ?" 

"  Exactly  so !" 

"  Why,  sir — -did  I  not  see  you  myself,  when  everybody 
else  looked  on  -with  trembling  and  with  terror,  throw  your 
self  in  the  way  of  Drummond's  horses  and  save  the  poor 
boy  from  being  dashed  to  pieces?  There  was  surely  no 
lack  of  courage  there  !" 

"  No  !  in  that  sense,  my  son,  I  labor  under  no  deficiency. 
But  this  sort  of  courage  is  of  the  meanest  kind.  It  is  the 
courage  of  impulse,  not  of  steadfastness.  Hear  me,  Wil 
liam.  You  have  more  than  once  allowed  the  expression  of 
a  wonder  to  escape  you,  why  a  man,  having  such  a  passion 
for  books  and  study,  and  with  the  appearance  of  mental  re 
sources,  such  as  I  am  supposed  to  possess,  should  be  con 
tent,  retiring  from  the  great  city,  to  set  up  his  habitation  in 
this  remote  and  obscure  region.  My  chosen  profession 
was  the  law  ;  I  was  no  unfaithful  student.  True,  I  had  no 
parents  to  lament  my  wanderings  and  failures ;  but  I  did 
not  wander.  I  studied  closely,  with  a  degree  of  diligence 
which  seemed  to  surprise  all  my  companions.  1  was  ambi 
tious —  intensely  ambitious.  My  head  ran  upon  the  strifes 
of  the  forum,  its  exciting  contests  of  mind  and  soul  —  its 
troubles,  its  triumphs.  This  was  my  leading  thought — it. 
was  my  only  passion.  The  boy-frenzies  for  women,  which 
are  prompted  less  by  sentiment  or  judgment,  than  by  fever- 


THE    HISTORY   OF   A   FAILURE.  155 

ish  blood,  troubled  me  little.  Law  was  my  mistress  —  took 
up  all  my  time  —  absorbed  all  my  devotion.  I  believe  that 
I  was  a  good  lawyer  —  no  pettifogger  — •  the  merely  drilled 
creature  who  toils  for  his  license,  and  toils  for  ever  after 
solely  for  his  petty  gains,  in  the  miserably  petty  arts  of 
making  gains  for  others,  and  eluding  the  snares  set  for  his 
own  feet  by  kindred  spirits.  As  far  as  the  teaching  of  this 
country  could  afford  me  the  means  and  opportunity,  I  en 
deavored  to  procure  a  knowledge  of  universal  law  —  its 
sources  —  its  true  objects  —  its  just  principles  —  its  legiti 
mate  dicta.  Mere  authorities  never  satisfied  me,  unless, 
passing  behind  the  black  gowns,  I  could  follow  up  the  rea 
soning  to  the  first  fountains  —  the  small  original  truths,  the 
nicely  discriminated  requisitions  of  immutable  justice  —  the 
clearly-defined  and  inevitable  wants  of  a  superior  and  pros 
perous  society.  Everything  that  could  illustrate  law  as 
well  as  fortify  it;  every  collateral  aid,  in  the  shape  of 
history  or  moral  truth,  I  gathered  together,  even  as  the 
dragoon  whose  chief  agent  is  his  sabre,  yet  takes  care  to 
provide  himself  with  pistols,  that  may  finish  what  the  other 
weapon  has  begun.  Nor  did  I  content  myself  with  the  mere 
acquisition  of  the  necessary  knowledge.  Knowing  how 
much  depends  upon  voice,  manner  and  fluency,  in  obtaining 
success  before  a  jury,  I  addressed  myself  to  these  particulars 
with  equal  industry.  My  voice,  even  now,  has  a  compass 
which  your  unexercised  lungs,  though  quite  as  good  origi 
nally  as  mine,  would  fail  entirely  to  contend  with.  I  do 
not  deceive  myself,  as  I  certainly  do  not  seek  to  deceive 
you,  when  I  say,  that  I  acquired  the  happiest  mastery  over 
my  person." 

"  Ah !  sir — we  see  that  now — that  must  have  been  the 
case !"  said  the  youth  interrupting  him.  The  other  con 
tinued,  sadly  smiling  as  he  heard  the  eulogy  which  the 
youth  meant  to  speak,  the  utterance  of  which  was  obviously 
from  the  heart. 

"  My  voice  was  taught  by  various  exercises  to  be  slow 


156  CHARLEMONT. 

or  rapid,  soft  or  strong,  harsh  or  musical,  by  the  most  sud 
den,  yet  unnoticeable  transitions.  I  practised  all  the  arts, 
which  are  recommended  by  elocutionists  for  this  purpose, 
I  rumbled  my  eloquence  standing  on  the  seashore,  up  to 
my  middle  in  the  breakers.  I  ran,  roaring  up  steep  hills 
— I  stretched  myself  at  length  by  the  side  of  meandering 
brooks,  or  in  slumberous  forests  of  pine,  and  sought,  by 
the  merest  whispers,  to  express  myself  with  distinctness 
and  melody.  But  there  was  something  yet  more  requisite 
than  these,  and  this  was  language.  My  labors  to  obtain 
all  the  arts  of  utterance  did  not  seem  less  successful.  I 
could  dilate  with  singular  fluency,  with  classical  propriety, 
and  great  natural  vigor  of  expression.  I  studied  direct 
ness  of  expression  by  a  frequent  intercourse  with  men  of 
business,  and  examined,  with  the  nicest  urgency,  the  par 
ticular  characteristics  of  those  of  my  own  profession  who 
were  most  remarkable  for  their  plain,  forcible  speaking. 
I  say  nothing  of  my  studies  of  such  great  masters  in  dis 
course  and  philosophy,  as  Milton,  Shakspere,  Homer,  Lord 
Bacon,  and  the  great  English  divines.  As  a  model  of  pure 
English  the  Bible  was  a  daily  study  of  two  hours ;  arid 
from  this  noble  well  of  vernacular  eloquence,  I  gathered  — 
so  I  fancied — no  small  portion  of  its  quaint  expressive 
vigor,  its  stern  emphasis,  i$s  golden  and  choice  phrases  of 
illustration.  Never  did  a  young  lawyer  go  into  the  forum 
more  thoroughly  clad  in  proof,  or  with  a  better  armory  as 
well  for  defence  as  attack." 

"You  did  not  fail,  sir?"  exclaimed  the  youth  with  a 
painful  expression  of  eager  anxiety  upon  his  countenance. 

"  I  did  fail — fail  altogether !  In  the  first  effort  to  speak, 
I  fainted,  and  was  carried  lifeless  from  the  court-room." 

The  old  man  covered  his  face  with  his  hands,  for  a  few 
moments,  to  conceal  the  expression  of  pain  and  mortifica 
tion  which  memory  continued  to  renew  in  utter  despite  of 
time.  The  young  man's  hand  rested  affectionately  on  his 


THE   HISTOiiY   OF   A   FAILURE.  157 

shoulder.  A  few  moments  sufficed  to  enable  the  former  to 
renew  his  narrative. 

"  I  was  stunned  but  not  crushed  by  this  event.  I  knew 
my  own  resources.  I  recollected  a  similar  anecdote  of 
Sheridan ;  of  his  first  attempt  and  wretched  failure.  I, 
too,  felt  that  '  I  had  it  in  me,'  and  though  I  did  not  express, 
I  made  the  same  resolution,  that  '  I  would  bring  it  out.' 
But  Sheridan  and  myself  failed  from  different  causes, 
though  I  did  not  understand  this  at  that  time.  He  had  a 
degree  of  hardihood  which  I  had  not ;  and  he  utterly  lacked 
my  sensibilities.  The  very  intenseness  of  my  ambition; 
the  extent  of  my  expectation ;  the  elevated  estimate  which 
I  had  made  of  my  own  profession ;  of  its  exactions ;  and, 
again,  of  what  was  expected  from  me ;  were  all  .so  many 
obstacles  to  my  success.  I  did  not  so  esteem  them,  then ; 
and  after  renewing  my  studies  in  private,  my  exercises  of 
expression  and  manner,  and  going  through  a  harder  course 
of  drilling,  I  repeated  the  attempt  to  suffer  a  repetition  of 
the  failure.  I  did  not  again  faint,  but  I  was  speechless. 
I  not  only  lost  the  power  of  utterance,  but  I  lost  the  cor 
responding  faculty  of  sight.  My  eyes  were  completely 
dazed  and  confounded.  The  objects  of  sight  around  me 
were  as  crowded  and  confused  as  the  far,  dim  ranges  of 
figures,  tribes  upon  tribes,  and  legions  upon  legions,  which 
struggle  in  obscurity  and  distance,  in  any  one  of  the  be 
grimed  and  blurred  pictures  of  Martin's  Pandemonium. 
My  second  failure  was  a  more  enfeebling  disaster  than  the 
first.  The  first  procured  me  the  sympathy  of  my  audience, 
the  last  exposed  me  to  its  ridicule." 

Again  the  old  man  paused.  By  this  time,  the  youth  had 
got  one  of  his  arms  about  the  neck  of  the  speaker,  and  had 
taken  one  of  his  hands  within  his  grasp. 

"  Yours  is  a  generous  nature,  William,"  said  Mr.  Cal- 
vert,  "  and  I  have  not  said  to  you,  until  to-day,  how  grate 
ful  your  boyish  sympathies  have  been  to  me  from  the  first 
day  when  you  became  my  pupil.  It  is  my  knowledge  of 


158  CHARLEMONT. 

these  sympathies,  and  a  desire  to  reward  them,  that 
prompts  me  to  tell  a  story  which  still  brings  its  pains  to 
memory,  and  which  would  be  given  to  no  other  ears  than 
your  own.  I  see  that  you  are  eager  for  the  rest — for  the 
wretched  sequel'." 

"Oh,  no!  sir — do  not  tell  me  any  more  of  it  if  it 
brings-  you  pain.  I  confess  I  should  like  to  know  all, 
but—" 

"You  shall  have  it  all,,  my  son.  My  purpose  would 
not  be  answered  unless  I  finished  the  narrative.  You  will 
gather  from  it,  very  possibly,  the  moral  which  I  could  not. 
You  will  comprehend  something  better,  the  woful  distinc 
tion  between  courage  of  the  blood  and  courage  of  the  brain  ; 
between  the  mere  recklessness  of  brute  impulse,  and  the 
steady  valor  of  the  soul — that  valor,  which,  though  it 
trembles,  marches  forward  to  the  attack — recovers  from  its 
fainting,  to  retrieve  its  defeat ;  and  glows  with  self-indig 
nation  because  it  has  suffered  the  moment  of  victory  to 
pass,  without  employing  itself  to  secure  the  boon ! — 

"  Shame,  and  a  natural  desire  to  retrieve  myself,  oper 
ated  to  make  me  renew  my  efforts.  I  need  not  go  through 
the  processes  by  which  I  endeavored  to  acquire  the  neces 
sary  degree  of  hardihood.  In  vain  did  I  recall  the  fact 
that  my  competitors  were  notoriously  persons  far  inferior 
to  me  in  knowledge  of  the  topics ;  far  inferior  in  the  capa 
city  to  analyze  them ;  rude  and  coarse  in  expression ;  un 
familiar  with  the  language — mere  delvers  and  diggers  in  a 
science  in  which  I  secretly  felt  that  I  should  be  a  master. 
In  vain  did  I  recall  to  mind  the  fact  that  I  knew  the  com 
munity  before  which  I  was  likely  to  speak ;  I  knew  its 
deficiencies ;  knew  the  inferiority  of  its  idols,  and  could 
and  should  have  no  sort  of  fear  of  its  criticism.  But  it 
was  myself  that  I  feared.  I  had  mistaken  the  true  censor. 
It  was  my  own  standards  of  judgment  that  distressed  and 
made  me  tremble.  It  was  what  I  expected  of  myself — 
what  I  thought  should  be  expected  of  me — that  made  my 


THE    HISTORY   OF   A   FAILURE.  159 

weak  soul  recoil  in  terror  from  the  conviction  that  I  must 
fail  in  its  endeavor  to  reach  the  point  which  my  ambitious 
soul  strove  to  attain.  The  fear,  in  such  cases,  produced 
the  very  disaster,  from  the  anticipated  dread  of  which  it 
had  arisen.  I  again  failed — failed  egregiously — failed 
utterly  and  for  ever !  I  never  again  attempted  the  fearful 
trial.  I  gave  up  the  contest,  yielded  the  field  to  my  infe 
riors,  better-nerved,  though  inferior,  and,  with  all  my  learn 
ing,  all  my  eloquence,  my  voice,  my  manner ;  my  resources 
of  study,  thought,  and  utterance,  fled  from  sight — fled  here 
— to  bury  myself  in  the  wilderness,  and  descend  to  the 
less  ambitious,  but  less  dangerous  vocation  of  schooling — 
I  trust,  to  better  uses  —  the  minds  of  "others.  I  had  done 
nothing  with  my  own." 

"  Oh,  sir,  do  not  say  so.  Though  you  may  have  failed 
in  one  department  of  human  performance,  you  have  suc 
ceeded  in  others.  You  have  lost  none  of  the  knowledge 
which  you  then  acquired.  You  possess  all  the  gifts  of  elo 
quence,  of  manner,  of  voice,  of  education,  of  thought." 

"  But  of  what  use,  my  son  ?  Remember,  we  do  not  toil 
for  these  possessions  to  lock  them  up — to  content  ourselves, 
as  the  miserable  miser,  with  the  consciousness  that  we  pos 
sess  a  treasure  known  to  ourselves  only — useless  to  all 
others  as  to  ourselves !  Learning,  like  love,  like  money, 
derives  its  true  value  from  its  circulation." 

"  And  you  circulate  yours,  my  dear  sir.  What  do  we 
not  owe  you  in  Charlemont?  What  do  I  not  owe  you, 
over  all  ?" 

"  Love,  my  son — love  only.  Pay  me  that.  Do  not  de 
sert  me  in  my  old  age.  Do  not  leave  me  utterly  alone !" 

"  I  will  not,  sir — I  never  thought  to  do  so." 

"  But,"  said  the  old  man,  "  to  resume.  Why  did  I  fail 
is  still  the  question.  Because  I  had  not  been  taught  those 
lessons  of  steady  endurance  in  my  youth  which  would 
have  strengthened  me  against  failure,  and  enable  me  finally 
to  triumph.  There  is  a  rich  significance  in  what  we  hear 


160  CHARLEMONT. 

of  the  Spartan  boy,  who  never  betrayed  his  uneasiness  or 
agony  though  the  fox  was  tearing  out  his  bowels.  There 
is  a  sort  of  moral  roughening  which  boys  should  be  made 
to  endure  from  the  beginning,  if  the  hope  is  ever  enter 
tained,  to  mature  their  minds  to  intellectual  manhood.  Our 
American  Indians  prescribe  the  same  laws,  and  in  their 
practice,  very  much  resemble  the  ancient  Spartans.  To 
bear  fatigue,  and  starvation,  and  injury — exposure,  wet, 
privation,  blows — but  never  to  complain.  Nothing  betrays 
so  decidedly  the  lack  of  moral  courage  as  the  voice  of 
complaint.  It  is  properly  the  language  of  woman.  It 
must  not  be  your  language.  Do  you  understand  me,  Wil 
liam  ?" 

"  In  part,  sir,  but  I  do  not  see  how  I  could  have  helped 
being  what  I  am." 

"  Perhaps  not,  because  few  have  control  of  their  own 
education.  Your  parents  have  been  too  tender  of  you. 
They  have  not  lessoned  you  in  that  proper  hardihood  which 
leads  to  performance.  That  task  is  before  yourself,  and 
you  have  shrunk  from  the  first  lessons." 

"  How,  sir  ?" 

"Jnstead  of  clinging  to  your  Blackstone,  you  have  al 
lowed  yourself  to  be  seduced  from  its  pages,  by  such  attrac 
tions  as  usually  delude  boys.  The  eye  and  lip  of  a  pretty 
woman— a  bright  eye  and  a  rosy  cheek,  have  diverted  you 
from  your  duties." 

"  But  do  our  duties  deny  us  the  indulgence  of  proper 
sensibilities  ?" 

"  Certainly  not — proper  sensibilities,  on  the  contrary, 
prescribe  our  duties." 

"  But  love,  sir — is  not  love  a  proper  sensibility  ?" 

"  In  its  place,  it  is.  But  you  are  a  boy  only.  Do  you 
suppose  that  it  was  ever  intended  that  you  should  enter 
tain  this  passion  before  you  had  learned  the  art  of  provi 
ding  your  own  food  ?  Not  so  ;  and  the  proof  of  this  is  to 
be  found  in  the  fact  that  the  loves  of  boyhood  are  never  of 


THE   HISTORY   OF   A    FAILURE.  161 

a  permanent  character.  No  such  passion  can  promote  hap 
piness  if  it  is  indulged  before  the  character  of  the  parties 
is  formed.  I  now  tell  you  that  in  five  years  from  this  time 
you  will  probably  forget  Miss  Cooper." 

"  Never !  never  !" 

"  Well,  well — I  go  farther  in  my  prophecy.  Allow  me 
to  suppose  you  successful  in  your  suit,  which  I  fancy  can 
never  be  the  case^ ' 

«  Why,  sir,  why  ?" 

"  Because  she  is  not  the  girl  for  you ;  or  rather,  she  does 
not  think  you  the  man  for  her  !" 

"  But  why  do  you  think  so,  sir  ?" 

"  Because  I  know  you  both.  There  are  circumstances 
of  discrepancy  between  you  which  will  prevent  it,  and  even 
were  you  to  be  successful  in  your  suit,  which  I  am  very  sure 
will  never  be  the  case,  you  would  be  the  most  miserably- 
matched  couple  under  the  sun." 

"Oh,  sir,  do  not  say  so — do  not.  I  can  not  think  so, 
sir." 

"  You  will  not  think  so,  I  am  certain.  I  am  equally  cer 
tain  from  what  I  know  of  you  both,  that  you  are  secure  from 
any  such  danger.  It  is  not  my  object  to  pursue  this  refer 
ence,  but  let  me  ask  you,  William,  looking  at  things  in  the 
most  favorable  light,  has  Margaret  Cooper  ever  given  you 
any  encouragement  ?" 

"  I  can  not  say  that  she  has,  sir,  but " 

"  Nay,  has  she  not  positively  discouraged  you  ?  Does 
she  not  avoid  you  —  treat  you  coldly  when  you  meet  —  say 
little,  and  that  little  of  a  kind  to  denote- — I  will  not  say 
dislike — but  pride,  rather  than  love  ?" 

The  young  man  said  nothing.   The  old  one  proceeded :  — 

"  You  are  silent,  and  I  am  answered.  I  have  long 
watched  your  intercourse  with  this  damsel,  and  loving  you 
as  my  own  son,  I  have  watched  it  with  pain.  She  is  not 
for  you,  William.  She  loves  you  not.  I  am  sure  of  it.  I 
can  not  mistake  the  signs.  .  She  seeks  other  qualities  than 


162  CHARLEMONT. 

such  as  you  possess.  She  seeks  meretricious  qualities,  and 
yours  are  substantial.  She  seeks  the  pomps  of  mind,  rather 
than  its  subdued  performances.  She  sees  not,  and  can  not 
see,  your  worth  ;  and  whenever  you  propose  to  her,  your 
suit  will  be  rejected.  You  have  not  done  so  yet  ?" 

"No,  sir — but  I  had  hoped— 

"  I  am  no  enemy,  believe  me,  William,  when  I  implore 
you  to  discard  your  hope  in  that  quarter.  It  will  do  you 
no  hurt.  Your  heart  will  suffer  no  detriment,  but  be  as 
whole  and  vigorous  a  few  years  hence — perhaps  months — 
as  if  it  had  never  suffered  any  disappointment." 

"  I  wish  I  could  think  so,  sir." 

"  And  you  would  not  wish  that  you  could  think  so,  if  you 
were  not  already  persuaded  that  your  first  wish  is  hope 
less." 

"  But  I  am  not  hopeless,  sir." 

"Your  cause  is.  But,  promise  me  that  you 'will  not 
press  your  suit  at  present." 

The  young  man  was  silent. 

"  You  hesitate." 

"I  dare  not  promise." 

"  Ah,  you  are  a  foolish  boy.  Do  you  not  see  the  rock 
on  which  you  are  about  to  split.  You  have  never  learned 
how  to  submit.  This  lesson  of  submission  was  that  which 
made  the  Spartan  boy  famous.  Here,  you  persist  in  your 
purpose,  though  your  own  secret  convictions,  as  well  as 
your  friend's  counsel,  tell  you  that  you  strive  against  hope. 
You  could  not  patiently  submit  to  the  counsel  of  this  stran 
ger,  though  he  came  directly  from  your  parents,  armed  with 
authority  to  examine  and  to  counsel." 

"  Submit  to  him  !  I  would  sooner  perish  !"  exclaimed 
the  indignant  youth. 

"  You  will  perish  unless  you  learn  this  one  lesson.  But 
where  now  is  your  ambition,  and  what  does  it  aim  at  ?" 

The  youth  was  silent. 

"  The  idea  of  an  ambitious  youth,  at  twenty,  giving  up 


THE   HISTORY   OF   A    FAILURE.  163 

book  and  candle,  leaving  his  studies,  and  abandoning  him 
self  to  despair,  because  his  sweetheart  won't  be  his  sweet 
heart  any  longer,  gives  us  a  very  queer  idea  of  the  sort  of 
ambition  which  works  in  his  breast." 

"  Don't,  sir,  don't,  I  pray  you,  speak  any  more  in  this 
manner." 

"  Nay,  but,  William,  ask  yourself.  Is  it  not  a  queer 
idea  ?" 

"  Spare  me,  sir,  if  you  love  me." 

"  I  do  love  you,  and  to  show  you  that  I  do,  I  now  recom 
mend  to  you  to  propose  to  Margaret  Cooper." 

"  What,  sir,  you  do  not  think  it  utterly  hopeless  then  ?" 

"Yes,  I  do." 

"  And  you  would  have  me  expose  myself  to  rejection  ?" 

"  Exactly  so !" 

"  Really,  sir,  I  do  not  understand  you." 

"  Well,  I  will  explain.  Nothing  short  of  rejection  will 
possibly  cure  you  of  this  malady  ;  and  it  is  of  the  last  im 
portance  to  your  future  career,  that  you  should  be  freed 
as  soon  as  possible  from  this  sickly  condition  of  thought 
and  feeling — a  condition  in  which  your  mind  will  do  noth 
ing*,  and  in  which  your  best  days  will  be  wasted.  Black- 
stone  can  only  hope  to  be  taken  up  when  you  have  done 
with  her." 

"  Stay,  sir — that  is  she  below." 

"  Who  ?" 

"  Margaret " 

"  Who  is  with  her  ?" 

"  The  stranger — this  man,  Stevens." 

"  Ha  !  your  counsellor,  that  would  be  ?  Ah !  William, 
you  did  not  tell  me  all." 


164  CHAELEMONT. 


CHAPTER    XIY. 

THE   ENTHUSIAST. 

THE  cheeks  of  the  youth  glowed.  He  felt  how  much  he 
had  suppressed  in  his  conference  with  his  venerable  coun 
sellor.  Mr.  Calvert  did  not  press  the  topic,  and  the  two 
remained  silent,  looking  down,  from  the  shaded  spot  where 
they  lay,  upon  the  progress  of  Margaret  Cooper  and  her 
present  attendant,  Stevens.  The  eminence  on  which  they 
rested  was  sufficiently  lofty,  as  we  have  seen,  to  enable 
them,  though  themselves  almost  concealed  from  sight,  to 
take  in  the  entire  scene,  not  only  below  but  around  them ; 
and  the  old  man,  sharing  now  in  the  interest  of  his  young- 
companion,  surveyed  the  progress  of  the  new-comers  with  a 
keen  sense  of  curiosity  which,  for  a  time,  kept  him  silent. 
The  emotions  of  William  Hinkley  were  such  as  to  deprive 
him  of  all  desire  for  speech  ;  and  each,  accordingly,  found 
sufficient  employment  in  brooding  over  his  own  awakened 
fancies.  Even  had  they  spoken  in  the  ordinary  tone  of 
their  voices,  the  sounds  could  not  have  reached  the  persons 
approaching  on  the  opposite  side.  They  drew  nigh,  evi 
dently  unconscious  that  the  scene  was  occupied  by  any  other 
than  themselves.  Ned  Hinkley  was  half-shrouded  in  the 
shrubbery  that  environed  the  jutting  crag  upon  which  his 
form  was  crouched,  and  they  were  not  yet  sufficiently  nigh 
to  the  tarn  to  perceive  his  projecting  rod,  and  the  gaudy 
fly  which  he  kept  skipping  about  upon  the  surface.  The 
walk  which  they  pursued  was  an  ancient  Indian  footpath, 


THE   ENTHUSIAST.  165 

which  had  without  doubt  conducted  the  red  warriors,  a 
thousand  times  before,  to  a  spot  of  seclusion  and  refresh 
ment  after  their  long  day's  conflict  on  the  "  dark  and 
bloody  ground"  It  was  narrow  and  very  winding,  and 
had  been  made  so  in  order  to  lessen  the  fatigue  of  an  as 
cent  which,  though  gradual  enough,  was  yet  considerable, 
and  would  have  produced  great  weariness,  finally,  had  the 
pathway  been  more  direct. 

The  circuitousness  of  this  route,  which  lay  clear  enough 
before  the  eyes  of  our  two  friends  upon  the  eminence — 
crawling,  as  it  did,  up  the  woodland  slopes  with  the  sinu 
ous  course  of  a  serpent — was  yet  visible  to  Ned  Hinkley, 
on  his  lowlier  perch,  only  at  its  starting-point,  upon  the 
very  margin  of  the  lake.  He,  accordingly,  saw  as  little  of 
the  approaching  persons  as  they  had  seen  of  him.  They 
advanced  slowly,  and  seemed  to  be  mutually  interested  in 
their  subject  of  conversation.  The  action  of  Stevens  was 
animated.  The  air  and  attitude  of  Margaret  Cooper  was 
that  of  interest  and  attention.  It  was  with  something  little 
short  of  agony  that  William  Hinkley  beheld  them  pause 
upon  occasion,  and  confront  each  other  as  if  the  topic  was 
of  a  nature  to  arrest  the  feet  and  demand  the  whole  fixed 
attention  of  the  hearer. 

It  will  be  conjectured  that  Alfred  Stevens  had  pressed 
his  opportunities  with  no  little  industry.  Enough  has  been 
shown  to  account  for  the  readiness  of  that  reception  which 
Margaret  Cooper  was  prepared  to  give  him.  Her  intelli 
gence  was  keen,  quick,  and  penetrating.  She  discovered 
at  a  glance,  not  his  hypocrisy,  but  that  his  religious  enthu 
siasm  was  not  of  a  sort  to  become  very  tyrannical.  The 
air  of  mischief  which  was  expressed  upon  his  face  when 
the  venerable  John  Cross  proposed  to  purge  her  library  of 
its  obnoxious  contents,  commended  him  to  her  as  a  sort  of 
ally ;  and  the  sympathy  with  herself,  which  such  a  conjec 
ture  promised,  made  her  forgetful  of  the  disingenuousness 
of  his  conduct  if  her  suspicions  were  true.  But  there  were 


166  CHARLEMONT. 

some  other  particulars  which,  in  her  mind,  tended  to  dissi 
pate  the  distance  between  them.  She  recognised  the  indi 
vidual.  She  remembered  the  bold,  dashing  youth,  who,  a 
few  months  before,  had  encountered  her  on  the  edge  of  the 
village,  and,  after  they  had  parted,  had  ridden  back  to  the 
spot  where  she  still  loitered,  for  a  second  look.  To  that 
very  spot  had  she  conducted  him  on  their  ramble  that  af 
ternoon. 

"  Da  you  know  this  place,  Mr.  Stevens  ?"  she  demanded 
with  an  arch  smile,  sufficiently  good-humored  to  convince 
the  adventurer  that,  if  she  had  any  suspicions,  they  were 
not  of  a  nature  to  endanger  his  hopes. 

"  Do  I  not !"  he  said,  with  an  air  of  empressement  which 
caused  her  to  look  down. 

"  I  thought  I  recollected  you,"  she  said,  a  moment 
after. 

"  Ah !  may  I  hope  that  I  did  not  then  offend  you  with 
my  impertinence  ?  But  the  truth  is,  I  was  so  struck — par 
don  me  if  I  say  it — with  the  singular  and  striking  differ 
ence  between  the  group  of  damsels  I  had  seen  and  the  one 
— the  surprise  was  so  great — the  pleasure  so  unlocked 
for  — that— " 

The  eye  of  Margaret  Cooper  brightened,  her  cheek 
glowed,  and  her  form  rose  somewhat  proudly.  The  arch- 
hypocrite  paused  judiciously,  and  she  spoke  : — 

"  Nay,  nay,  Mr.  Stevens,  these  fine  speeches  do  not  pass 
current.  You  would  make  the  same  upon  occasion  to  any 
one  of  the  said  group  of  damsels,  were  you  to  be  her  es 
cort." 

"  But  I  would  scarcely  ride  back  for  a  second  look,"  he 
responded,  in  a  subdued  tone  of  voice,  while  looking  with 
sad  expressiveness  into  her  eyes.  These  were  cast  down 
upon  the  instant,  and  the  color  upon  her  cheeks  was  height 
ened. 

"  Come,"  said  she,  making  an  effort,  "  there  is  nothing 
here  to  interest  us." 


THE    ENTHUSIAST.  167 

"  Except  memory/'  he  replied  ;  "  I  shall  never  forget  the 
spot." 

She  hurried  forward,  and  he  joined  her.  She  had  re 
ceived  the  impression  which  he  intended  to  convey,  without 
declaring  as  much — namely,  that  his  return  to  Charlemont 
had  been  prompted  by  that  one  glimpse  which  he  had  then 
had  of  her  person.  Still,  that  nothing  should  be  left  in 
doubt,  he  proceeded  to  confirm  the  impression  by  other 
suggestions : — 

"  You  promise  to  show  me  a  scene  of  strange  beauty,  but 
your  whole  village  is  beautiful,  Miss  Cooper.  I  remember 
how  forcibly  it  struck  me  as  I  gained  the  ascent  of  the  op^ 
posite  hills  coming  in  from  the  east.  It  was  late  in  the 
day,  the  sun  was  almost  setting,  and  his  faintest  but  love 
liest  beams  fell  upon  the  cottages  in  the  valley,  and  lay 
•with  a  strange,  quiet  beauty  among  the  grass-plats,  and  the 
flower-ranges,  and  upon  the  neat,  white  palings." 

"  It  is  beautiful,"  she  said  with  a  sigh,  "  but  its  beauty 
does  not  content  me.  It  is  too  much  beauty  ;  it  is  too  soft ; 
for,  though  it  has  its  rocks  and  huge  trees,  yet  it  lacks 
wilclness  and  sublimity.  The  rocks  are  not  sufficiently  ab 
rupt,  the  steeps  not  sufficiently  great ;  there  are  no  chasms, 
no  waterfalls — only  purling  brooks  and  quiet  walks." 

"  I  have  felt  this  already,"  he  replied ;  "  but  there  is  yet 
a  deficiency  which  you  have  not  expressed,  Miss  Cooper." 

"  What  is  that  ?"  she  demanded. 

"  It  is  the  moral  want.  You  have  no  life  here ;  and  that 
which  would  least  content  me  would  be  this  very  repose — 
the  absence  of  provocation  —  the  strife — the  triumph! 
These,  I  take  it,  are  the  deficiencies  which  you  really  feel 
when  you  speak  of  the  want  of  crag,  and  chasm,  and  wa 
terfall." 

"  You,  too,  are  ambitious,  then  !"  she  said  quickly ;  "  but 
how  do  you  reconcile  this  feeling  with  your  profession  ?" 

She  looked  up,  and  caught  IMS  eye  tenderly  fixed  upon 
her. 


168  CHARLEMONT. 

"  Ah !"  said  he,  "  Miss  Cooper,  there  are  some  situations 
in  which  we  find  it  easy  to  reconcile  all  discrepancies. " 

If  the  language  lacked  explicitness,  the  look  did  not. 
He  proceeded : — 

"  If  I  mistake  not,  Miss  Cooper,  you  will  be  the  last  one 
to  blame  me  for  not  having  stifled  my  ambition,  even  at  the 
calls  of  duty  and  profession." 

"  Blame  you,  sir  ?  Far  from  it.  I  should  think  you 
very  unfortunate  indeed,  if  you  could  succeed  in  stifling 
ambition  at  any  calls,  nor  do  I  exactly  see  how  duty  should 
require  it." 

"  If  I  pursue  the  profession  of  the  divine  ?"  he  answered 
hesitatingly. 

"  Yes — perhaps — but  that  is  not  certain  ?"  There  was 
some  timidity  in  the  utterance  of  this  inquiry.  He  evaded  it. 

"  I  know  not  yet  what  I  shall  be,"  he  replied  with  an  air 
of  self-reproach  ;  "  I  fear  I  have  too  much  of  this  fiery  ardor 
which  we  call  ambition  to  settle  down  into  the  passive  char 
acter  of  the  preacher." 

"  Oh,  do  not,  do  not !"  she  exclaimed  impetuously ;  then, 
as  if  conscious  of  the  impropriety,  she  stopped  short  in  the 
sentence,  while  increasing  her  forward  pace. 

"What!"  said  he,  "you  think  that  would  effectually 
stifle  it  ?" 

"  Would  it  not — does  it  not  in  most  men  ?" 

"  Perhaps ;  but  this  depends  upon  the  individual.  Church 
men  have  a  great  power — the  greatest  in  any  country." 

"  Over  babes  and  sucklings  !"  she  said  scornfully. 

"  And,  through  these,  over  the  hearts  of  men  and  wo 
men." 

"But  these,  too,  are  babes  and  sucklings — people  to  be 
scared  by  shadows  —  the  victims  of  their  own  miserable 
fears  and  superstitions !" 

"  Nevertheless,  these  confer  power.  Where  there  is 
power,  there  is  room  for  ambition.  You  recollect  that 
churchmen  have  put  their  feet  upon  the  necks  of  princes." 


THE   ENTHUSIAST.  169 

"  Yes,  but  that  was  when  there  was  one  church  only  in 
Christendom.  It  was  a  monopoly,  and  consequently  a  tyr 
anny.  Now  there  are  a  thousand,  always  in  conflict,  and  serv 
ing  very  happily  to  keep  each  other  from  mischief.  They 
no  longer  put  their  feet  on  princes'  necks,  though  I  believe 
that  the  princes  are  no  better  off  for  this  forbearance  — 
there  are  others  who  do.  But  only  fancy  that  this  time 
was  again,  and  think  of  the  comical  figure  our  worthy 
brother  John  Cross  would  make,  mounting  from  such  a 
noble  horse-block !" 

The  idea  was  sufficiently  pleasant  to  make  Stevens 
laugh. 

"I  am  afraid  I  shall  have  greater  trouble  in  converting 
you,  Miss  Cooper,  than  any  other  of  the  flock  in  Charle- 
mont.  I  doubt  that  your  heart  is  stubborn — that  you  are 
an  insensible !" 

"  I  insensible !"  she  exclaimed,  and  with  such  a  look ! 
The  expression  of  sarcasm  had  passed,  as  with  the  rapidity 
of  a  lightning-flash,  from  her  beautiful  lips ;  and  a  silent 
tear  rose,  tremulous  and  large,  with  the  same  instantane 
ous  emotion,  beneath  her  long,  dark  eyelashes.  She  said 
nothing  more,  but,  with  eyes  cast  down,  went  forward. 
Stevens  was  startled  with  the  suddenness  of  these  transi 
tions.  They  proved,  at  least,  how  completely  her  mind 
was  at  the  control  of  her  blood.  Hitherto,  he  had  never 
met  with  a  creature  so  liberally  endowed  by  nature,  who 
was,  at  the  same  time,  so  perfectly  unsophisticated.  The 
subject  was  gratifying  as  a  study  alone,  even  if  it  conferred 
no  pleasure,  and  awakened  no  hopes. 

"  Do  not  mistake  me,"  he  exclaimed,  hurrying  after,  "  I 
had  no  purpose  to  impute  to  you  any  other  insensibility  ex 
cept  to  that  of  the  holy  truths  of  religion." 

She  looked  up  and  smiled  archly.  There  was  another 
transition  from  cloud  to  sunlight. 

"  What !  are  you  so  doubtful  of  your  own  ministry  ?" 

"  In  your  case,  I  am." 

8 


170  CHARLEMONT. 

"Why?" 

"  You  will  force  me  to  betake  myself  to  studies  more 
severe  than  any  I  have  yet  attempted." 

She  was  flattered  but  she  uttered  a  natural  disclaimer. 

"  No,  no  !  I  am  presumptuous.  I  trust  you  will  teach  me. 
Begin  —  do  not  hesitate  —  I  will  listen." 

"  To  move  you  I  must  not  come  in  the  garments  of  meth- 
odism.  That  faith  will  never  be  yours." 

"  What  faith  shall  it  be  ?" 

"  That  of  Catholicism.  I  must  come  armed  with  author 
ity.  I  must  carry  the  sword  and  keys  of  St.  Peter.  I 
must  be  sustained  by  all  the  pomps  of  that  church  of  pomps 
and  triumphs.  My  divine  mission  must  speak  through  signs 
and  symbols,  through  stately  stole,  pontifical  ornaments,  the 
tiara  of  religious  state  on  the  day  of  its  most  solemn  cere 
monial  ;  and  with  these  I  must  bring  the  word  of  power, 
born  equally  of  intellect  and  soul,  and  my  utterance  must 
be  in  the  language  of  divinest  poesy  !" 

"  Ah !  you  mistake  !  That  last  will  be  enough.  Speak 
to  me  in  poesy  —  let  me  hear  that  —  and  you  will  subdue 
me,  I  believe,  to  any  faith  that  you  teach.  For  I  can  not 
but  believe  the  faith  that  is  endowed  with  the  faculty  of 
poetic  utterance." 

"  In  truth  it  is  a  divine  utterance  —  perhaps  the  only  di 
vine  utterance.  Would  I  had  it  for  your  sake." 

"  Oh !  you  must  have  it.  I  fancy  I  see  it  in  some  things 
that  you  have  said.  You  read  poetry,  I  am  sure  —  I  am 
sure  you  love  it." 

"  I  do  !  I  know  not  anything  that  I  love  half  so  well." 

"  Then  you  write  it  ?"  she  asked  eagerly. 

"  No !  the  gift  has  been  denied  me." 

She  looked  at  him  with  eyes  of  regret. 

"  How  unfortunate,"  she  said. 

"  Doubly  so,  as  the  deficiency  seems  to  disappoint  you." 

She  did  not  seem  to  heed  the  flattery  of  this  remark,  nor 
did  she  appear  to  note  the  expression  of  face  with  which  it 


THE   ENTHUSIAST.  171 

was  accompanied.  Her  feelings  took  the  ascendency.  She 
spoke  out  her  uncommissioned  thoughts  and  fancies  musing 
ly,  as  if  without  the  knowledge  of  her  will. 

"  I  fancy  that  I  could  kneel  down  and  worship  the  poet, 
and  feel  no  shame,  no  humility.  It  is  the  only  voice  that 
enchants  me  —  that  leads  me  out  from  myself;  that  carries 
me  where  it  pleases  and  finds  for  me  companions  in  the 
solitude ;  songs  in  the  storm ;  affections  in  the  barren  desert! 
Even  here,  it  brings  me  friends  and  fellowships.  How 
voiceless  would  be  all  these  woods  to  me  had  it  no  voice 
speaking  to,  and  in,  my  soul.  Hoping  nothing,  and  per 
forming  nothing  here,  it  is  my  only  consolation.  It  recon 
ciles  me  to  this  wretched  spot.  It  makes  endurance  toler 
able.  If  it  were  not  for  this  companionship  —  if  I  heard 
not  this  voice  in  my  sorrows,  soothing  my  desolation,  I 
could  freely  die !  —  die  here,  beside  this  rock,  without 
making  a  struggle  to  go  forward,  even  to  reach  the  stream 
that  flows  quietly  beyond  !" 

She  had  stopped  in  her  progress  while  this  stream  of  en 
thusiasm  poured  from  her  lips.  Her  action  was  suited  to 
her  utterance.  Unaccustomed  to  restraint  —  nay,  accus 
tomed  only  to  pour  herself  forth  to  woods,  and  trees,  and 
waters,  she  was  scarcely  conscious  of  the  presence  of  any 
other  companion,  yet  she  looked  even  while  she  spoke,  in 
the  eyes  of  Stevens.  He  gazed  on  her  with  glances  of  un 
concealed  admiration.  The  unsophisticated  nature  which 
led  her  to  express  that  enthusiasm  which  a  state  of  conven 
tional  existence  prompts  us,  through  fear  of  ridicule,  in 
dustriously  to  conceal,  struck  him  with  the  sense  of  a  new 
pleasure.  The  novelty  alone  had  its  charm  ;  but  there  were 
other  sources  of  delight.  The  natural  grace  and  dignity 
of  the  enthusiastic  girl,  adapting  to  such  words  the  appro 
priate  action,  gave  to  her  beauty,  which  was  now  in  its  first 
bloom,  all  the  glow  which  is  derived  from  intellectual  in 
spiration.  Her  whole  person  spoke.  All  was  vital,  spirit 
ual,  expressive,  animated ;  and  when  the  last  word  lingered 


172  CHARLEMONT. 

on  her  lips,  Stevens  could  scarcely  repress  the  impulse 
which  prompted  him  to  clasp  her  in  his  embrace. 

"  Margaret !"  he  exclaimed  —  "  Miss  Cooper !  —  you  are 
yourself  a  poet !" 

"  No,  no  !"  she  murmured,  rather  than  spoke  ;  —  "  would 
I  were  !  —  a  dreamer  only  —  a  self-deluded  dreamer." 

"  You  can  not  deceive  me  !"  he  continued,  "  I  see  it  in 
your  eyes,  your  action  ;  I  hear  it  in  your  words.  I  can  not 
be  deceived.  You  are  a  poet  —  you  will,  and  must  be 
one!" 

"And  if  I  were!"  she  said  mournfully,  "of  what  aVail 
would  it  be  here  ?  What  heart  in  this  wilderness  would 
be  touched  by  song  of  mine  ?  Whose  ear  could  I  soothe  in 
this  cold  and  sterile  hamlet  ?'  Where  would  be  the  temple 
—  who  the  worshippers  —  even  were  the  priestess  all  that 
her  vanity  would  believe,  or  her  prayers  and  toils  might 
make  her  ?  No,  no  !  I  am  no  poet ;  and  if  I  were,  better 
that  the  flame  should  go  out  —  vanish  altogether  in  the 
smoke  of  its  own  delusions  —  than  burn  with  a  feeble  light, 
unseen,  untrimmed,  unhonored  —  perhaps,  beheld  with  the 
scornful  eye  of  vulgar  and  unappreciating  ignorance  !" 

"  Such  is  not  your  destiny,  Margaret  Cooper,"  replied 
Stevens,  using  the  freedom  of  address,  perhaps  uncon 
sciously,  which  the  familiarity  of  country  life  is  sometimes 
found  to  tolerate.  "  Such  is  not  your  destiny,  Margaret. 
The  flame  will  not  go  out  —  it  will  be  loved  and  wor 
shipped  !" 

"  Ah  !  never !  what  is  here  to  justify  such  a  hope  —  such 
a  dream  ?" 

"  Nothing  here ;  but  it  was  not  of  Charlemont  I  spoke. 
The  destiny  which  has  endowed  you  with  genius  will  not 
leave  it  to  be  extinguished  here.  There  will  come  a  wor 
shipper,  Margaret.  There  will  come  one,  equally  capable 
to  honor  the  priestess  and  to  conduct  her  to  befitting  altars. 
This  is  not  your  home,  though  it  may  have  been  your  place 
of  trial  and  novitiate.  Here,  without  the  restraint  of  cold, 


THE   ENTHUSIAST.  173 

oppressive,  social  forms,  your  genius  has  ripened  —  your 
enthusiasm  has  been  kindled  into  proper  glow  —  your  heart, 
and  mind,  and  imagination,  have  kept  equal  pace  to  an 
equal  maturity !  Perhaps  this  was  fortunate.  Had  you 
grown  up  in  more  polished  and  worldly  circles,  you  would 
have  been  compelled  to  subdue  the  feelings  and  fancies 
which  now  make  your  ordinary  language  the  language  of 
a  muse." 

"  Oh !  speak  not  so,  I  implore  you.  I  am  afraid  you 
mock  me." 

"No!  on  my  soul,  I  do  not.  I  think  all  that  I  say, 
More  than  that,  I  feel  it,  Margaret.  Trust  to  me  —  confide 
in  me  —  make  me  your  friend !  Believe  me,  I  am  not  al 
together  what  I  seem." 

An  arch  smile  once  more  possessed  her  eyes. 

"  Ah !  I  could  guess  that !  But  sit  you  here.  Here  is 
a  flower  —  a  beautiful,  small  flower,  with  a  dark  blue  eye. 
See  it  —  how  humbly  it  hides  amid  the  grass.  It  is  the 
last  flower  of  the  season.  I  know  not  its  name.  I  am  no 
botanist :  but  it  is  beautiful  without  a  name,  and  it  is  the 
last  flower  of  the  season.  Sit  down  on  this  rock,  and  I 
will  sing  you  Moore's  beautiful  song,  *  'Tis  the  last  of  its 
kindred.' " 

"  Nay,  sing  me  something  of  your  own,  Margaret." 

"  No,  no !  Don't  speak  of  me,  and  mine,  in  the  same 
breath  with  Moore.  You  will  make  me  repent  of  having 
seen  you.  Sit  down  and  be  content  with  Moore,  or  go 
without  your  song  altogether." 

He  obeyed  her,  and  the  romantic  and  enthusiastic  girl, 
seating  herself  upon  a  fragment  of  rock  beside  the  path, 
sang  the  delicate  and  sweet  verses  of  the  Irish  poet,  with 
a  natural  felicity  of  execution,  which  amply  compensated 
for  the  absence  of  those  Italian  arts,  which  so  frequently 
elevate  the  music  at  the  expense  of  the  sentiment.  Stevens 
looked  and  listened,  and  half  forgot  himself  in  the  breath- 
lessness  of  his  attention  —  his  eye  fastened  with  a  gaze  of 


174  CHARLEMONT. 

absolute  devotion  on  her  features,  until,  having  finished  her 
song,  she  detected  the  expression  of  his  face,  and  started, 
with  blushing  cheeks,  to  her  feet. 

"  Oh !  sweet !"  he  murmured  as  he  offered  to  take  her 
hand,  but  she  darted  forward,  and  following  her,  he  found 
himself  a  few  moments  after,  standing  by  her  side,  and  look 
ing  down  upon  one  of  the  loveliest  lakes  that  ever  slept  in 
the  embrace  of  jealous  hills. 


A   CATASTROPHE.  175 


CHAPTER    XV. 

A    CATASTROPHE. 

"  You  disparage  these  scenes,"  said  Stevens,  after  sev 
eral  moments  had  been  given  to  the  survey  of  that  before 
him,  "  and  yet  you  have  drawn  your  inspiration  from  them 
— the  fresh  food  which  stimulates  poetry  and  strengthens 
enthusiasm.  Here  you  learned  to  be  contemplative ;  and 
here,  in  solitude,  was  your  genius  nursed.  Do  not  be  un 
grateful,  Margaret — you  owe  to  these  very  scenes  all  that 
you  are,  and  all  that  you  may  become." 

"  Stay  !  before  I  answer.     Do  you  see  yon  bird  ?" 

"  Where  ?" 

"In  the  west- — there!"  she  pointed  with  her  fingers, 
catching  his  wrist  unconsciously,  at  the  same  time,  with  tho 
other  hand,  as  if  more  certainly  to  direct  his  gaze. 

"  I  see  it— what  bird  is  it  ?" 

"  An  eagle  !  See  how  it  soars  and  swings ;  effortless,  as 
if  supported  by  some  external  power !" 

"  Indeed — it  seems  small  for  an  eagle." 

"It  is  one  nevertheless !  There  are  thousands  of  them 
that  roost  among  the  hills  in  that  quarter.  I  know  the 
place  thoroughly.  The  heights  are  the  greatest  that  we 
have  in  the  surrounding  country.  The  distance  from  this 
spot  is  about  five  miles.  He,  no  doubt,  has  some  fish,  or 
bird  now  within  his  talons,  with  which  to  feed  his  young. 
He  will  feed  them,  and  they  will  grow  strong,  and  will 


176  CHARLEMONT. 

finally  use  their  own  wings.     Shall  he  continue  to  feed  them 
after  that  ?     Must  they  never  seek  their  own  food  ?" 

"  Surely  they  must." 

"  If  these  solitudes  have  nursed  me,  must  they  continue 
to  nurse  me  always  ?  Must  I  never  use  the  wings  to  which 
they  have  given  vigor  ?  Must  I  never  employ  the  sight  to 
which  they  have  imparted  vigilance  ?  Must  I  never  go  forth, 
and  strive  and  soar,  and  make  air,  and  earth,  and  sea,  tribu 
tary  to  my  wing  and  eye  ?  Alas  !  I  am  a  woman  ! — and  her 
name  is  weakness  I  You  tell  me  of  what  I  am,  and  of  what 
I  may  become.  But  what  am  I  ?  I  mock  myself  too  often 
with  this  question  to  believe  all  your  fine  speeches.  And 
what  may  I  become  ?  Alas  !  who  can  tell  me  that  ?  I 
know  my  strength,  but  I  also  know  my  weakness.  I  feel  the 
burning  thoughts  of  my  brain ;  I  feel  the  yearning  impulses 
in  my  heart;  but  they  bring  nothing — they  promise  noth 
ing — I  feel  the  pang  of -constant  denial.  I  feel  that  I  can 
be  nothing!" 

"  Say  not  so,  Margaret — think  not  so,  I  beseech  you. 
With  your  genius,  your  enthusiasm — your  powers  of  ex 
pression — there  is  nothing,  becoming  in  your  sex,  and 
worthy  of  it,  which  you  may  not  be." 

"  You  can  not  deceive  me  !  It  might  be  so,  if  this  were 
Italy ;  there,  where  the  very  peasant  burns  with  passion, 
and  breathes  his  feeblest  and  meanest  thoughts  and  desires 
in  song.  But  here,  they  already  call  me  mad  !  They  look 
on  me  as  one  doomed  to  Bedlam.  They  avoid  me  with 
sentiments  and  looks  of  distrust,  if  not  of  fear ;  and  when 
I  am  looking  into  the  cloud,  striving  to  pierce,  with  dilating 
eye  its  wild  yellow  flashing  centres,  they  draw  their  flaxen- 
headed  infants  to  their  breasts,  and  mutter  their  thanks  to 
God,  that  he  has  not,  in  a  fit  of  wrath,  made  them  to  re 
semble  me !  If,  forgetful  of  earth,  and  trees,  and  the 
human  stocks  around  me,  I  pour  forth  the  language  of  the' 
great  song-masters,  they  grin  at  my  insanity — they  hold 
me  incapable  of  reason,  and  declare  their  ideas  of  what 


A   CATASTROPHE.  177 

that  is,  by  asking  who  knows  most  of  the  dairy,  the  cab 
bage-patch,  the  spinning-wheel,  the  darning-needle — who 
can  best  wash  Polly's  or  Patty's  face  and  comb  its  head — 
can  chop  up  sausage-meat  the  finest — make  the  lightest 
paste,  and  more  economically  dispense  the  sugar  in  serving 
up  the  tea !  and  these  are  what  is  expected  of  woman ! 
These  duties  of  the  meanest  slave  !  From  her  mind  noth 
ing  is  expected.  Her  enthusiasm  terrifies,  her  energy 
offends,  and  if  her  taste  is  ever  challenged,  it  is  to  the 
figures  upon  a  quilt  or  in  a  flower-garden,  where  the  pas 
sion  seems  to  be  to  make  flowers  grow  in  stars,  and  hearts, 
and  crescents.  What  has  woman  to  expect  where  such  are 
the  laws ;  where  such  are  the  expectations  from  her  ? 
What  am  I  to  hope.?  I,  who  seem  to  be  set  apart — to  feel 
nothing  like  the  rest — to  live  in  a  different  world — to 
dream  of  foreign  things — to  burn  with  a  hope  which  to 
them  is  frenzy,  and  speak  a  language  which  they  neither 
understand  nor  like !  What  can  I  be,  in  such  a  world  ? 
Nothing,  nothing !  I  do  not  deceive  myself.  I  can  never 
hope  to  be  anything." 

Her  enthusiasm  hurried  her  forward.  In  spite  of  him 
self,  Stevens  was  impressed.  He  ceased  to  think  of  his 
evil  purposes  in  the  superior  thoughts  which  her  wild,  un 
regulated  energy  inspired.  He  scarcely  wondered,  indeed 
—  if  it  were  true — that  her  neighbors  fancied  her  insane. 
The  indignation  of  a  powerful  mind  denied — denied  justice 
— baffled  in  its  aims — conscious  of  the  importance  of  all 
its  struggles  against  binding  and  blinding  circumstances — 
is  akin  to  insanity ! — is  apt  to  express  itself  in  the  defiant 
tones  of  a  fierce  and  feverish  frenzy. 

"  Margaret,"  said  he,  as  she  paused  and  waited  for  him, 
"  you  are  not  right  in  everything.  You  forget  that  your 
lonely  little  village  of  Charlemont,  is  not  only  not  the  world, 
but  that  it  is  not  even  an  American  world.  America  is  not 
Italy,  I  grant  you,  nor  likely  soon  to  become  so ;  but  if 
you  fancy  there  are  not  cities  even  in  our  country,  where 


178  CHARLEMONT. 

genius  such  as  yours  would  be  felt  and  worshipped,  you  are 
mistaken." 

"  Do  you  believe  there  are  such  ?"  she  demanded  incred 
ulously. 

"  I  know  there  are  !" 

"  No  !  no !  I  know  better.  You  can  not  deceive  me. 
It  can  not  be  so.  I  know  the  sort  of  genius  which  is  pop 
ular  in  those  cities.  It  is  the  gentleman  and  lady  genius. 
Look  at  their  verses  for  example.  I  can  show  you  thou 
sands  of  such  things  that  come  to  us  here,  from  all  quarters 
of  the  Union — verses  written  by  nice  people — people  of 
small  tastes  and  petty  invention,  who  would  not  venture 
upon  the  utterance  of  a  noble  feeling,  or  a  bold  sentiment 
of  originality,  for  fear  of  startling  the.  fashionable  nerves 
with  the  strong  words  which  such  a  novelty  would  require. 
Consider,  in  the  first  place,  how  conclusive  it  is  of  the 
feeblest  sort  of  genius  that  these  people  should  employ 
themselves,  from  morning  to  night,  in  spinning  their  small 
strains,  scraps  of  verse,  song,  and  sonnet,  and  invariably 
on  such  subjects  of  commonplace,  as  can  not  admit  of  origi 
nality,  and  do  not  therefore  task  reflection.  Not  an  infant 
dies  or  is  born,  but  is  made  the  subject  of  verse ;  nay,  its 
smiles  and  tears  are  put  on  record ;  its  hobby-horse,  and 
its  infant  ideas  as  they  begin  to  bud  and  breathe  aloud. 
Then  comes  the  eternal  strain  about  summer  blooms  and 
spring  flowers ;  autumn's  melancholy  and  winter's  storms, 
until  one  sickens  of  the  intolerable  monotony.  Such  are 
the  things  that  your  great  cities  demand.  Such  things 
content  them.  Speak  the  fearless  and  always  strange  lan 
guage  of  originality  and  strength,  and  you  confound  and 
terrify  them." 

"  But,  Margaret,  these  things  are  held  at  precisely  the 
same  value  in  the  big  cities  as  they  are  held  by  you  here 
in  Charlemont.  The  intelligent  people  smile — they  do  not 
applaud.  If  they  encourage  at  all  it  is  by  silence." 

"  No !    no !    that  you   might   say,  if,  unhappily,  public 


A   CATASTROPHE.  179 

opinion  did  not  express  itself.  The  same  magazines  which 
bring  us  the  verses  bring  us  the  criticism." 

"  That  is  to  say,  the  editor  puffs  his  contributors,  and 
disparages  those  who  are  not.  Look  at  the  rival  journal 
and  you  will  find  these  denounced  and  another  set  praised 
and  beplastered." 

"  Ah !  and  what  would  be  my  hope,  my  safety,  in  com 
munities  which  tolerate  these  things  ;  in  which  the  number 
of  just  and  sensible  people  is  so  small  that  they  dare  not 
speak,  or  can  not  influence  those  who  have  better  courage  ? 
Where  would  be  my  triumphs  ?  I,  who  would  no  more 
subscribe  to  the  petty  tyranny  of  conventional  law,  than  to 
that  baser  despotism  which  is  wielded  by  a  mercenary  edi 
tor,  in  the  absence  of  a  stern  justice  in  the  popular  mind. 
Here  I  may  pine  to  death — there,  my  heart  would  burst 
with  its  own  convulsions." 

"  No !  Margaret,  no !  It  is  because  they  have  not  the 
genius,  that  such  small  birds  are  let  to  sing.  Let  them  but 
hear  the  true  minstrel — let  them  but  know  that  there  is  a 
muse,  and  how  soon  would  the  senseless  twitter  which 
they  now  tolerate  be  hushed  in  undisturbing  silence.  In 
the  absence  of  better  birds  they  bear  with  what  they  have. 
In  the  absence  of  the  true  muse  they  build  no  temple  — 
they  throng  not  to  hear.  Nay,  even  now,  already,  they 
look  to  the  west  for  the  minstrel  and  the  muse — to  these 
very  woods.  There  is  a  tacit  and  universal  feeling  in  the 
Atlantic  country,  that  leads  them  to  look  with  expectation 
to  the  Great  West,  for  the  genius  whose  song  is  to  give  us 
fame.  i  When  ?'  is  the  difficult — the  only  question.  Ah  ! 
might  I  but  say  to  them  —  'now' — the  muse  is  already 
here !" 

He  took  her  hand — she  did  not  withhold  it;  but  her 
look  was  subdued — the  fires  had  left  her  eyes — her  whole 
frame  trembled  with  the  recoil  of  those  feelings — the  relax 
ation  of  those  nerves — the  tension  of  which  we  have  en- 
endeavored  feebly  to  display.  Her  cheek  was  no  longer 


180  CHARLEMONT. 

flushed  but  pale ;  her  lips  trembled — her  voice  was  low 
and  faint — only  a  broken  and  imperfect  murmur;  and  her 
glance  was  cast  upon  the  ground. 

"  You !"  she  exclaimed. 

"  Yes,  I !  Have  I  not  said  I  am  not  altogether  what  I 
seem  ?  Ah !  I  may  not  yet  say  more.  But  I  am  not  with 
out  power,  Margaret,  in  other  and  more  powerful  regions. 
I  too  have  had  my  triumphs  ;  I  too  can  boast  that  the  minds 
of  other  men  hang  for  judgment  upon  the  utterance  of 
mine." 

She  looked  upward  to  his  glance  with  a  stranger  expres 
sion  of  timidity  than  her  features  had  before  exhibited.  The 
form  of  Stevens  had  insensibly  risen  in  seeming  elevation 
as  he  spoke,  and  the  expression  of  his  face  was  that  of  a 
more  human  pride.  He  continued: — 

"  My  voice  is  one  of  authority  in  circles  where  yours 
would  be  one  of  equal  attraction  and  command.  I  can  not 
promise  you  an  Italian  devotion,  Margaret;  our  people, 
though  sufficiently  enthusiastic,  are  too  sensible  to  ridicule 
to  let  the  heart  and  blood  speak  out  with  such  freedom  as 
they  use  in  the  warmer  regions  of  the  South  :  but  the  hom 
age  will  be  more  intellectual,  more  steady,  and  the  fame 
more  enduring.  You  must  let  your  song  be  heard — you 
must  give  me  the  sweet  privilege 'of  making  it  known  to 
ears  whose  very  listening  is  fame." 

"Ah !"  she  said,  "  what  you  say  makes  me  feel  how  fool 
ishly  I  have  spoken.  What  is  my  song?  what  have  I 
done  ?  what  am  I  ?  what  have  I  to  hope  ?  I  have  done 
nothing— I  am  nothing!  I  have  suffered,  like  a  child,  a 
miserable  vanity  to  delude  me,  and  I  have  poured  into  the 
ears  of  a  stranger  those  ravings  which  I  have  hitherto 
uttered  to  the  hills  and  forests.  You  laugh  at  me  now  — 
you  must." 

The  paleness  on  her  cheek  was  succeeded  by  the  deep 
est  flush  of  crimson.  She  withdrew  her  hand  from  his 
grasp. 


A    CATASTROPHE.  181 

"  Laugh  at  you,  Margaret !  You  have  awakened  my 
wonder.  Struck  with  you  when  we  first  met — " 

"  Nay,  no  more  of  that,  but  let  us  follow  these  windings  ; 
they  lead  us  to  the  tarn.  It  is  the  prettiest  Indian  path, 
and  my  favorite  spot.  Here  I  ramble  morning  and  eve, 
and  try  to  forget  those  vain  imaginings  and  foolish  stri 
vings  of  thought  which  I  have  just  inflicted  upon  you.  The 
habit  proved  too  much  for  my  prudence,  and  I  spoke  as  if 
you  were  not  present.  Possibly,  had  you  not  spoken  in 
reply,  I  should  have  continued  until  now." 

"  Why  did  I  speak  ?" 

"  Ah !  it  is  better.  I  wish  you  had  spoken  sooner.  But 
follow  me  quickly.  The  sunlight  is  now  falling  in  a  par 
ticular  line  which  gives  us  the  loveliest  effect,  shooting  its 
rays  through  certain  fissures  of  the  rock,  and  making  a 
perfect  arrow-path  along  the  water.  You  would  fancy 
that  Apollo  had  just  dismissed  a  golden  shaft  from  his 
quiver,  so  direct  is  the  levelled  light  along  the  surface  of 
the  lake." 

Speaking  thus,  they  came  in  sight  of  the  party  on  the  op 
posite  hills,  as  we  have  already  shown — without,  however, 
perceiving  them  in  turn.  It  will  be  conjectured  without 
difficulty  that,  with  a  nature  so  full  of  impulse,  so  excitable, 
as  that  of  Margaret  Cooper- — particularly  in  the  company 
of  an  adroit  man  like  Stevens,  whose  purpose  was  to  en 
courage  her  in  that  language  and  feeling  of  egotism  which, 
while  it  was  the  most  grateful  exercise  to  herself,  was  that 
which  most  effectually  served  to  blind  her  to  his  designs — 
her  action  was  always  animated,  expressively  adapting  it 
self,  not  only  to  the  words  she  uttered,  but,  even  when  she 
did  not  speak,  to  the  feelings  by  which  she  was  governed. 
It  was  the  art  of  Stevens  to  say  little  except  by  suggestives. 
A  single  word,  or  brief  sentence,  from  his  lips,  judiciously 
applied  to  her  sentiments  or  situation,  readily  excited  her 
to  speech ;  and  this  utterance  necessarily  brought  with  it 
the  secret  of  her  soul,  the  desire  of  her  heart,  nay,  the  very 


182  CHARLEMONT. 

shape  of  the  delusion  which  possessed  it.  The  wily  liber 
tine,  deliberate  as  the  demon  to  which  we  have  likened 
him,  could  provoke  the  warmth  which  he  did  not  share — 
could  stimulate  the  eloquence  which  he  would  not  feel — 
could  coldly,  like  some  Mephistopheles  of  science,  subject 
the  golden-winged  bird  or  butterfly  to  the  torturous  process 
of  examination,  with  a  pin  thrust  through  its  vitals,  and 
gravely  dilate  on  its  properties,  its  rich  plumage,  and  elab 
orate  finish  of  detail,  without  giving  heed  to  those  writhings 
which  declared  its  agonies.  It  is  not  meant  to  be  under 
stood  that  Stevens  found  no  pleasure  himself  in  the  display 
of  that  wild,  unschooled  imagination  which  was  the  prevail 
ing  quality  in  the  mind  of  Margaret  Cooper.  He  was  a 
man  of  education  and  taste.  He  could  be  pleased  as  an 
amateur ;  but  he  wanted  the  moral  to  be  touched,  and  to 
sympathize  with  a  being  so  gifted  and  so  feeble — so  high 
aiming,  yet  so  liable  to  fall. 

The  ardor  of  Margaret  Cooper,  and  the  profound  devo 
tion  which  it  was  the  policy  of  Stevens  to  display,  necessa 
rily  established  their  acquaintance,  in  a  very  short  time,  on 
the  closest  footing  of  familiarity.  With  a  nature  such  as 
hers,  all  that  is  wanted  is  sympathy — all  that  she  craves 
is  sympathy — and,  to  win  this,  no  toil  is  too  great,  no  suf 
ferance  too  severe ;  alas,  how  frequently  do  we  see  that  no 
penalty  is  too  discouraging !  But  the  confiding  spirit  never 
looks  for  penalties,  and  seldom  dreams  of  deceit. 

What,  then,  were  -the  emotions  of  William  Hinkley  as  he 
beheld  the  cordiality  which  distinguished  the  manner  of 
Margaret  Cooper  as  she  approached  the  edge  of  the  lake 
with  her  companion  ?  In  the  space  of  a  single  week,  this 
stranger  had  made  greater  progress  in  her  acquaintance 
than  he  had  been  able  to  make  in  a  period  of  years.  The 
problem  which  distressed  him  was  beyond  his  power  to 
solve.  His  heart  was  very  full ;  the  moisture  was  already 
in  his  eyes  ;  and  when  he  beheld  the  animated  gestures  of 
the  maid — when  he  saw  her  turn  to  her  companion,  and 


A   CATASTROPHE.  183 

meet  his  gaze  without  shrinking,  while  her  own  was  fixed 
in  gratified  contemplation — he  scarcely  restrained  himself 
from  jumping  to  his  feet.  The  old  man  saw  his  emotion. 

"  William,"  he  said,  "  did  I  understand  you  that  this 
young  stranger  was  a  preacher  ?" 

"  No,  sir,  but  he  seeks  to  be  one.  He  is  studying  for 
the  ministry,  under  Brother  Cross." 

"  Brother  Cross  is  a  good  man,  and  is  scarcely  likely  to 
have  anything  to  do  with  any  other  than  good  men.  I  sup 
pose  he  knows  everything  about  the  stranger  ?" 

William  Hinkley  narrated  all  that  was  known  on  the  sub 
ject  in  the  village.  In  the  innocence  of  his  heart,  Brother 
Cross  had  described  Alfred  Stevens  as  a  monument  of  his 
own  powers  of  conversion.  Under  God,  he  had  been  a 
blessed  instrument  for  plucking  this  brand  from  the  burn 
ing.  A  modified  account  of  the  brandy-flask  accompanied 
the  narrative.  Whether  it  was  that  Mr.  Calvert,  who  had 
been  a  man  of  the  world,  saw  something  in  the  story  itself, 
arid  in  the  ludicrousness  of  the  event,  which  awakened  his 
suspicions,  or  whether  the  carriage  of  Alfred  Stevens,  as 
he  walked  with  Margaret  Cooper,  was  rather  that  of  a 
young  gallant  than  a  young  student  in  theology,  may  admit 
of  question ;  but  it  was  very  certain  that  the  suspicions  of 
the  old  gentleman  were  somewhat  awakened. 

Believing  himself  to  be  alone  with  his  fair  companion, 
Alfred  Stevens  was  not  as  scrupulous  of  the  rigidity  of  man 
ner  which,  if  not  actually  prescribed  to  persons  occupying 
his  professional  position,  is  certa'inly  expected  from  them ; 
and,  by  a  thousand  little  acts  of  gallantry,  he  proved  him 
self  much  more  at  home  as  a  courtier  and  a  ladies'  man 
than  as  one  filled  with  the  overflow  of  divine  grace,  and 
thoughtful  of  nothing  less  than  the  serious  earnest  of  his 
own  souL  His  hand  was  promptly  extended  to  assist  the 
progress  of  his  fair  companion  —  a  service  which  was  sin 
gularly  unnecessary  in  the  case  of  one  to  whom  daily  ram 
bles,  over  hill  and  through  forest,  had  imparted  a  most  un- 


184  CHARLEMONT. 

feminine  degree  of  vigor.  Now  he  broke  the  branch  away 
from  before  her  path  ;  and  now,  stooping  suddenly,  he  gath 
ered  for  her  the  pale  flower  of  autumn. 

These  little  acts  of  courtesy,  so  natural  to  the  gentleman, 
were  anything  but  natural  to  one  suddenly  impressed  with 
the  ascetical  temper  of  methodism.  Highly  becoming  in 
both  instances,  they  were  yet  strangely  at  variance  with  the 
straight-laced  practices  of  the  thoroughgoing  Wesleyan,  who 
sometimes  fancies  that  the  condition  of  souls  is  so  desper 
ate  as  to  leave  no  time  for  good  manners.  Mr.  Calvert  had 
no  fault  to  find  with  Stevens's  civility,  but  there  was  cer 
tainly  an  inconsistency  between  his  deportment  now,  and 
those  characteristics  which  were  to  be  predicated  of  the 
manner  and  mode  of  his  very  recent  conversion.  Besides, 
there  was  the  story  of  the  brandy-flask,  in  which  Calvert 
saw  much  less  of  honor  either  to  John  Cross  or  his  neo 
phyte.  But  the  old  man  did  not  express  his  doubts  to  his 
young  friend,  and  they  sat  together,  watching,  in  a  silence 
only  occasionally  broken  by  a  monosyllable,  the  progress 
of  the  unconscious  couple  below. 

Meanwhile,  our  fisherman,  occupying  his  lonely  perch 
just  above  the  stream,  had  been  plying  his  vocation  with 
all  the  silent  diligence  of  one  to  the  manner  born.  Once 
busy  with  his  angle,  and  his  world  equally  of  thought  and 
observation  became  confined  to  the  stream  before  his  eyes, 
and  the  victim  before  his  imagination.  Scarcely  seen  by 
his  companions  on  the  heights  above,  he  had  succeeded  in 
taking  several  very  fine  'fish ;  and  had  his  liberality  been 
limited  to  the  supper-table  of  his  venerable  friend  Calvert, 
lie  would  long  before  have  given  himself  respite,  and  tem 
porary  immunity  to  the  rest  of  the  finny  tribe  remaining  in 
the  tarn.  But  Ned  Hinkley  thought  of  all  his  neighbors, 
not  omitting  the  two  rival  widows,  Mesdames  Cooper  and 
Thackeray. 

Something  too,  there  was  in  the  sport,  which,  on  the 
present  occasion,  beguiled  him  rather  longer  than  his  wont. 


A    CATASTROPHE.  185 

More  than  once  had  his  eye  detected,  from  the  advantageous 
and  jutting  rock  where  he  lay  concealed,  just  above  the 
water,  tho  dark  outlines  of  a  fish,  one  of  the  largest  he  had 
ever  seen  in  the4ake,  whose  brown  sides,  and  occasionally 
flashing  fins,  excited  his  imagination  and  offered  a  challenge 
to  his  skill,  which  provoked  him  into  something  like  a  feel 
ing  of  personal  hostility. 

The  fish  moved  slowly  to  and  fro,  not  often  in  sight,  but 
at  such  regularly-recurring  periods  as  to  keep  up  the  exciting 
desire  which  his  very  first  appearance  had  awakened  in  the 
mind  of  his  enemy. 

To  Ned  Hinkley  he  was  the  beau-ideal  of  the  trout 
genius.  He  was  certainly  the  hermit-trout  of  the  tarn. 
Such  coolness,  such  strength,  such  size,  such  an  outline, 
and  then  such  sagacity.  That  trout  was  a  triton  among  his 
brethren.  A  sort  of  Dr.  Johnson  among  fishes.  Ned 
Hinkley  could  imagine — for  on  such  subjects  his  imagina 
tion  kindled — how  like  an  oracle  must  be  the  words  of  such 
a  trout,  to  his  brethren,  gathering  in  council  in  their  deep- 
down  hole  —  or  driven  by  a  shower  under  the  cypress  log — 
or  in  any  other  situation  in  which  an  oracle  would  be  apt 
to  say,  looking  around  him  with  fierceness  mingled  with 
contempt,  "  Let  no  dog  bark."  Ned  Hinkley  could  also 
fancy  the  contemplations  of  such  a  trout  as  he  witnessed 
the  efforts  made  to  beguile  him  out  of  the  water. 

"  Not  to  be  caught  by  a  fly  like  that,  my  lad  !"  and  pre 
cisely  as  if  the  trout  had  spoken  what  was  certainly  whis 
pered  in  his  own  mind,  the  fisherman  silently  changed  his 
gilded,  glittering  figure  on  his  hook  for  one  of  browner 
plumage  —  one  of  the  autumn  tribe  of  flies  which  stoop  to 
the  water  from  the  overhanging  trees,  and  glide  off  for 
twenty  paces  in  the  stream,  to  dart  up 'again  to  the  trees, 
in  as  many  seconds,  if  not  swallowed  by  some  watchful 
fisher-trout,  like  the  one  then  before  the  eyes  of  our  com 
panion. 

Though  his  fancy  had  become  excited,  Ned  Hinkley  was 


186  CHARLEMONT. 

not  impatient.  With  a  cautious  hand  he  conducted  the  fly 
down  the  stream  with  the  flickering,  fidgety  motion  which 
the  real  insect  would  have  employed.  The  keen-nosed 
trout  turned  with  the  movements  of  the  fly,  but  philosophi 
cally  kept  aloof.  Now  he  might  be  seen  to  sink,  now  to 
rise,  now  he  glided  close  under  the  rock  where  the  angler 
reclined,  and,  even  in  the  very  deep  waters  which  were 
there,  which  were  consequently  very  dark,  so  great  was  the 
size  of  the  animal,  that  its  brown  outline  was  yet  to  be  seen, 
with  its  slightly-waving  tail,  and  at  moments  the  flash  of  its 
glittering  eye,- as,  inclining  on  its  side,  it  glanced  cunningly 
upward  through  the  water. 

Again  did  Ned  Hinkley  consult  his  resources.  Fly  after 
fly  was  taken  from  his  box,  and  suffered  to  glide  upon  the 
stream.  The  wary  fish  did  not  fail  to  bestow  some  degree 
of  attention  upon  each,  but  his  regards  were  too  deliberate 
for  the  success  of  the  angler,  and  he  had  almost  began  to 
despair,  when  he  observed  a  slight  quivering  movement  in 
the  object  of  pursuit  which  usually  prepares  the  good  sports 
man  to  expect  his  prey.  The  fins  were  laid  aback.  The 
motion  of  the  fish  became  steady  ;  a  slight  vibration  of  the 
tail  only  was  visible ;  and  in  another  moment  he  darted, 
and  was  hooked. 

Then  came  the  struggle.  Ned  Hinkley  had  never  met 
with  a  more  formidable  prey.  The  reel  was  freely  given, 
but  the  strain  was  great  upon  shaft  and  line.  There  was 
no  such  thing  as  contending.  The  trout  had  his  way,  and 
went  down  and  off,  though  it  might  have  been  observed  that 
the  fisherman  took  good  care  to  baffle  his  efforts  to  retreat 
in  the  direction  of  the  old  log  which  had  harbored  him,  and 
the  tangling  alders,  which  might  have  been  his  safest  places 
of  retreat.  The  fish  carried  a  long  stretch  of  line,  but  the 
hook  was  still  in  his  jaws,  and  this  little  annoyance  soon 
led  him  upon  other  courses.  The  line  became  relaxed,  and 
with  this  sign,  Ned  Hinkley  began  to  amuse  himself  in 
tiring  his  victim. 


A    CATASTROPHE.  187 

This  required  skill  and  promptness  rather  than  strength. 
The  hermit- trout  was  led  to  and  fro  by  a  judicious  turn  of 
wrist  or  elbow.  His  efforts  had  subsided  to  a  few  spas 
modic  struggles  — an  occasional  struggle  ending  with  a 
shiver,  and  then  he  was  brought  to  the  surface.  This  was 
followed  by  a  last  great  convulsive  effort,  when  his  tail 
churned  the  water  into  a  little  circle  of  foam,  which  disap 
peared  the  moment  his  struggles  were  over.  But  a  few 
seconds  more  were  necessary  to  lift  the  prey  into  sight  of 
all  the  parties  near  to  the  lake.  They  had  seen  some  of 
the  struggle,  and  had  imagined  the  rest.  Neither  Marga 
ret  Cooper  nor  Stevens  had  suspected  the  presence  of  the 
fisherman  until  drawn  to  the  spot  by  this  trial  of  strength. 

"  What  a  prodigious  fish  !"  exclaimed  Stevens ;  "  can 
we  go  to  the  spot  ? 

"  Oh!  easily — up  the  rocks  on  the  left  there  is  a  path. 
I  know  it  well.  I  have  traversed  it  often.  Will  you  go  ? 
The  view  is  very  fine  from  that  quarter." 

11  Surely  :  but  who  is  the  fisherman  ?" 

"  Ned  Hinkley,  the  nephew  of  the  gentleman  with  whom 
you  stay.  He  is  a  hunter,  fisherman,  musician — eveiy- 
thing.  A  lively,  simple, but  well-meaning  young  person.  It 
is  something  strange  that  his  cousin  William  Hinkley*  is 
not  with  him.  They  are  usually  inseparable." 

And  with  these  words  she  led  the  way  for  her  compan 
ion  following  the  edge  of  the  lake  until  reaching  the  point 
where  the  rocks  seemed  to  form  barriers  to  their  further 
progress,  but  which  her  agility  and  energy  had  long  since 
enabled  her  to  overcome. 

"  A  bold  damsel !"  said  Calvert,  as  he  viewed  her  prog 
ress.  "  She  certainly  does  not  intend  to  clamber  over 
that  range  of  precipices.  She  will  peril  her  life." 

"  No  !"  said  William  Hinkley  ;  "  she  has  done  it  often 
to  my  great  terror.  I  have  been  with  her  more  than  once 
over  the  spot  myself.  She  seems  to  me  to  have  no  fear, 
and  to  delight  in  the  most  dangerous  places." 


188  CHARLEMONT. 

"  But  her  companion  !  If  he's  not  a  more  active  man 
than  he  seems  he  will  hardly  succeed  so  well." 

William  was  silent,  his  eye  watching  with  the  keenest 
interest  the  progress  of  the  two.  In  a  few  moments  he 
started  to  his  feet  with  some  appearance  of  surprise. 

"  What's  the  matter  ?"  demanded  Calvert. 

"  She  does  not  seem  as  if  she  wished  to  ascend  the  rocks, 
but  she's  aiming  to  keep  along  the  ledges  that  overhang  the 
stream,  so  as  to  get  where  Ned  is.  That  can  hardly  be 
done  by  the  surest-footed,  and  most  active.  Many  of  the 
rocks  are  loose.  The  ledge  is  very  narrow,  and  even  where 
there  is  room  for  the  feet  there  are  such  projections  above 
as  leave  no  room  for  the  body.  I  will  halloo  to  her,  and 
tell  her  of  the  danger." 

"  If  you  halloo,  you  will  increase  the  danger  —  you  will 
alarm  her,"  said  the  old  man. 

"  It  will  be  best  to  stop  her  now,  in  season,  when  she 
can  go  back.  Stay  for  me,  sir,  I  can  run  along  on  the 
heights  so  as  to  overlook  them,  and  can  then  warn  without 
alarming." 

"  Do  so,  my  son,  and  hasten,  for  she  seems  bent  on  going 
forward.  The  preacher  follows  but  slowly,  and  she  stops 
for  him.  Away !" 

The  youth  darted  along  the  hill,  pursuing  something  of 
a  table-line  which  belonged  to  the  equal  elevation  of  the 
range  of  rock  on  which  he  stood.  The  rock  was  formed 
of  successive  and  shelving  ledges,  at  such  intervals,  how 
ever,  as  to  make  it  no  easy  task — certainly  no  safe  one — 
to  drop  from  one  to  the  other.  The  perch  of  Ned  Hinkley, 
was  a  projection  from  the  lowest  of  these  ledges,  running 
brokenly  along  the  margin  of  the  basin  until  lost  in  the 
forest  slope  over  which  Margaret  Cooper  had  led  her  com 
panion. 

If  it  was  a  task  to  try  the  best  vigor  and  agility — to  say 
nothing  of  courage — of  the  ablest  mountaineer,  to  ascend 
the  abrupt  ledges  from  below,  aiming  at  the  highest  point 


A    CATASTROPHE.  189 

of  elevation  —  the  attempt  was  still  more  startling  to  follow 
the  lower  ledges,  some  of  which  hung,  loosened  and  totter 
ing,  just  above  the  deepest  parts  of  the  lake.  Yet,  with 
that  intrepidity  which  marked  her  character,  this  was  the 
very  task  which  Margaret  Cooper  had  proposed  to  herself. 
William  Hinkley  had  justly  said  that  she  did  not  seem  to 
know  fear ;  and  when  Stevens  with  the  natural  sense  of 
caution  which  belongs  to  one  to  whom  such  performances 
are  unusual,  suggested  to  her  that  such  a  pathway  seemed 
very  dangerous 

"  Dangerous  !"  she  exclaimed,  standing  upon  the  merest 
pinnacle  of  a  loosened  fragment  which  rested  on  the  very 
margin  of  the  stream. 

"  Did  you  never  perceive  that  there  was  a  loveliness  in 
danger  which  you  scarcely  felt  to  be  half  so  great  in  any 
other  object  or  situation.  I  love  the  dangerous.  It  seems 
to  lift  my  soul,  to  make  my  heart  bound  with  joy  and  the 
wildest  delight.  I  know  nothing  so  delightful  as  storm 
and  thunder.  I  look,  and  see  the  tall  trees  shivering  and 
going  down  with  a  roar,  and  feel  that  I  could  sing — sing 
aloud  —  and  believe  that  there  are  voices,  like  mine,  then 
singing  through  all  the  tempest.  But  there  is  no  danger 
here.  I  have  clambered  up  these  ledges  repeatedly — up 
to  the  very  top.  Here,  you  see,  we  have  an  even  pathway 
along  the  edge.  We  have  nothing  to  do  but  to  set  the 
foot  down  firmly." 

But  Stevens  was  not  so  sure,  and  his  opinion  on  the  beau 
ties  of  the  dangerous  did  not  chime  exactly  with  hers.  Still, 
he  did  not  lack  for  courage,  and  his  pride  did  not  suffer 
him  to  yield  in  a  contest  with  a  female.  He  gazed  on  her 
with  increasing  wonder.  If  he  saw  no  loveliness  in  danger 
—  he  saw  no  little  loveliness  just  then  in  her;  and  she 
might  be  said  to  personify  danger  to  his  eyes.  Her  tall, 
symmetrical,  and  commanding  figure,  perched  on  the  trem 
bling  pinnacle  of  rock  which  sustained  her,  was  as  firm  and 
erect  as  if  she  stood  on  the  securest  spot  of  land. 


190  CHARLEMONT. 

Nor  was  her  position  that  of  simple  security  and  firmness. 
The  grace  of  her  attitude,  her  extended  and  gently  waving 
arm  as  she  spoke,  denoted  a  confidence  which  could  only 
have  arisen  from  a  perfect  unconsciousness  of  danger.  Her 
swan-like  neck,  with  the  face  slightly  turned  back  to  him  : 
the  bright  flashing  eyes,  and  the  smile  of  equal  pride  and 
dignity  on  her  exquisitely-chiselled  mouth  ;  —  all  formed  a 
picture  for  the  artist's  study,  which  almost  served  to  divert 
the  thoughts  of  Stevens  from  the  feeling  of  danger  which  he 
expressed. 

While  he  gazed,  he  heard  a  voice  calling  in  tones  of  warn 
ing  from  above ;  and,  at  the  sound,  he  perceived  a  change 
in  the  expression  of  Margaret  Cooper's  face,  from  confi 
dence  and  pride,  to  scorn  and  contempt.  At  the  same 
time  she  darted  forward  from  rock  to  rock,  with  a  sort  of 
defying  haste,  which  made  him  tremble  for  her  safety,  and 
left  him  incapable  to  follow.  The  call  was  repeated  ;  and 
Stevens  looked  up,  and  recognised  the  person  of  the  youth 
whom  he  had  counselled  that  morning  with  such  bad  suc 
cess. 

If  the  progress  of  Margaret  Cooper  appeared  dangerous 
in  his  sight,  that  of  the  young  man  was  evidently  more  so. 
He  was  leaping,  with  the  cool  indifference  'of  one  who  valued 
his  life  not  a  pin's  fee,  from  ledge  to  ledge,  down  the  long 
steppes  which  separated  the  several  reaches  of  the  rock 
formation.  The  space  between  was  very  considerable,  the 
descent  abrupt ;  the  youth  had  no  steadying  pole  to  assist 
him,  but  flying  rather  than  leaping,  was  now  beheld  in  air, 
and  in  the  next  moment  stood  balancing  himself  with  diffi 
culty,  but  with  success,  and  without  seeming  apprehension, 
on  the  pinnacle  of  rock  below  him.  In  this  way  he  was  ap 
proaching  the  lower  ledge  along  which  Margaret  Cooper 
was  hurrying  as  rapidly  as  fearlessly,  and  calling  to  her  as 
he  came,  implored  her  to  forbear  a  progress  which  was  so 
full  of  danger. 

Stevens  fancied  he  had  no  reason  to  love  the  youth,  but 


A    CATASTROPHE.  191 

he  could  not  help  admiring  and  envying  his  equal  boldness 
and  agility  ;  the  muscular  ease  with  which  he  flung  himself 
from  point  to  point,  and  his  sure-footed  descent  upon  the 
crags  and  fragments  which  trembled  and  tottered  beneath 
the  sudden  and  unaccustomed  burden.  Charitably  wishing 
that,  amid  all  his  agility  he  might  yet  make  a  false  step, 
and  find  an  unexpected  and  rather  cold  bath  in  the  lake  be 
low,  Stevens  now  turned  his  eyes  upon  Margaret  Cooper. 

She  did  not  answer  the  counsels  of  William  Hinkley  — 
certainly  did  not  heed  them :  and,  but  for  the  increased  im 
patience  of  her  manner  might  be  supposed  not  to  have  heard 
them.  The  space  between  herself  and  Stevens  had  increased 
meanwhile,  and  looking  back,  she  waited  for  his  approach. 
She  stood  on  a  heavy  mass  which  jutted  above  the  lake, 
and  not  six  feet  from  the  water.  Her  right  foot  was  upon 
the  stone,  sustaining  the  whole  weight  of  her  person.  Her 
left  was  advanced  and  lifted  to  another  fragment  which  lay 
beyond.  As  she  looked  back  she  met  the  eyes  of  Stevens. 
Just  then  he  saw  the  large  fragment  yield  beneath  her  feet. 
She  seemed  suddenly  conscious  of  it  in  the  same  moment, 
and  sprung  rapidly  on  that  to  which  her  left  foot  was  al 
ready  advanced.  The  impetus  of  this  movement,  sent  the 
rock  over  which  she  had  left.  This  disturbed  the  balance 
of  that  to  which  she  had  risen,  and  while  the  breath  of  the 
stranger  hung  suspended  in  the  utterance  of  the  meditated 
warning,  the  catastrophe  had  taken  place.  The  stone 
shrank  from  beneath  her,  and,  sinking  with  it,  in  another 
moment,  she  was  hidden  from  sight  in  the  still,  deep  waters 
of  the  lake. 


192  CHARLEMONT. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

SOUSING   A   GURNET. 

THE  disappearance  of  Margaret  Cooper  was  succeeded 
by  a  shriek  from  above  —  a  single  shriek  —  a  cry  of  terror 
and  despair ;  and  in  the  same  instant  the  form  of  William 
Hinkley  might  have  been  seen  cleaving  the  air,  with  the 
boldness  of  a  bird,  secure  always  of  his  wing,  and  descend 
ing  into  the  lake  as  nearly  as  it  was  possible  for  him  to 
come,  to  the  spot  where  she  had  sunk.  Our  cooler  fisher 
man  looked  up  to  the  abrupt  eminence,  just  above  his  own 
head,  from  which  his  devoted  cousin  had  sprung. 

"  By  gemini !"  he  exclaimed  with  an  air  of  serious  ap 
prehension,  "  if  William  Hinkley  hasn't  knocked  his  life 
out  by  that  plunge  he's  more  lucky  than  I  think  him.  It's 
well  the  lake's  deep  enough  in  this  quarter  else  he'd  have 
tried  the  strength  of  hard  head  against  harder  rock  below. 
But  there's  no  time  for  such  nice  calculations !  We  can 
all  swim  —  that's  a  comfort." 

Thus  speaking,  he  followed  the  example  of  his  cousin, 
though  more  quietly,  plunging  off  from  his  lowlier  perch, 
and  cleaving  the  water,  headforemost,  with  as  little  com 
motion  as  a  sullen  stone  would  make  sent  directly  down 
ward  to  the  deep.  By  this  time,  however,  our  former  com 
panion,  Stevens,  had  done  the  same  thing.  Stevens  was 
no  coward,  but  he  had  no  enthusiasm.  He  obeyed  few  im 
pulses.  His  proceedings  were  all  the  result  of  calculation. 
He  could  swim  as  well  as  his  neighbors.  He  had  no  ap- 


SOUSING   A   GURNET.  193 

prehensions  on  that  score  ;  but  he  disliked  cold  water ;  and 
there  was  an  involuntary  shrug  of  the  shoulder  and  shiver 
of  the  limbs  before  he  committed  himself  to  the  water,  which 
he  did  with  all  the  deliberation  of  the  cat,  who,  longing  for 
fish,  is  yet  unwilling  to  wet  her  own  feet.  His  deliberation, 
and  the  nearness  of  his  position  to  Margaret  Cooper,  were 
so  far  favorable  to  his  design  that  he  succeeded  in  finding 
her  first.  It  must  be  understood  that  the  events,  which  we 
have  taken  so  much  time  to  tell,  occupied  but  a  few  seconds 
in  the  performance.  Stevens  was  in  the  water  quite  as 
quickly  as  Ned  Hinkley,  and  only  not  so  soon  as  his  more 
devoted  and  desperate  cousin.  If  it  was  an  advantage  to 
him  to  come  first  in  contact  with  the  form  of  Margaret 
Cooper,  it  had  nearly  proved  fatal  to  him  also.  In  the 
moment  when  he  encountered  her,  her  outstretched  and 
grasping  arms,  encircled  his  neck.  They  rose  together, 
but  he  was  nearly  strangled,  and  but  for  the  timely  inter 
position  of  the  two  cousins,  they  must  probably  have  both 
perished. 

It  was  the  fortune  of  our  fisherman  to  relieve  the  maiden, 
whom  he  bore  to  the  opposite  shore  with  a  coolness,  a  skill 
and  spirit,  which  enabled  him  to  save  himself  from  her  des 
perate  but  unconscious  struggles,  while  supporting  her  with 
a  degree  of  ease  and  strength  which  had  been  acquired 
while  teaching  some  dozen  of  the  village  urchins  how  to 
practise  an  art  in  which  he  himself  was  reckoned  a  great 
proficient. 

It  was  fortunate  for  Stevens  that  the  charities  of  William 
Hinkley  were  more  active  and  indulgent  than  his  own,  since, 
without  the  timely  succor  and  aid  which  he  afforded,  that 
devout  young  gentleman  would  have  been  made  to  discon 
tinue  his  studies  very  suddenly  and  have  furnished  a  sum 
mary  conclusion  to  this  veracious  narrative  —  a  consumma 
tion  which,  if  it  be  as  devoutly  wished  by  the  reader  as  by 
the  writer,  will  be  a  much  greater  source  of  annoyance  to 
our  publisher  than  it  has  proved  already.  Never  had  poor 

9 


194  CHARLEMONT. 

mortal  been  compelled  to  drink,  at  one  time,  a  greater 
quantity  of  that  celestial  beverage,  which  the  Reverend  Mr. 
Pierpont  insists  is  the  only  liquor  drunk  at  the  hotels  of 
heaven.  We  should  be  sorry  to  misrepresent  that  very 
gentle  gentleman,  but  we  believe  that  this  is  substantially 
his  idea.  It  was  unfortunate  for  Stevens  that,  previously 
to  this,  he  had  never  been  accustomed  to  drink  much  of  this 
beverage  in  its  original  strength  anywhere.  He  had  been 
too  much  in  the  habit  of  diluting  it ;  and  being  very  tem 
perate  always  in  his  enjoyment  of  the  creature  comforts,  he 
had  never  taken  it,  even  when  thus  diluted,  except  in  very 
moderate  quantities. 

In  consequence  of  his  former  abstemiousness,  the  quan 
tity  which,  he  now  swallowed  nearly  strangled  him.  He 
was  about  to  take  his  last  draught  with  many  wry  faces, 
when  the  timely  arms  of  the  two  cousins,  by  no  very  spar 
ing  application  of  force  withdrew  him  from  the  grasp  of 
the  damsel ;  and  without  very  well  understanding  the  pro 
cess,  or  any  particulars  of  his  extrication,  he  found  himself 
stretched  upon  the  banks  over  which  he  had  lately  wander 
ed,  never  dreaming  of  any  such  catastrophe ;  discharging 
from  his  stomach  by  no  effort  of  his  own,  a  large  quantity 
of  foreign  ingredients  —  the  ordinary  effect,  we  are  given 
to  understand,  of  every  inordinate  indulgence  in  strong 
waters. 

Our  excellent  old  friend,  Mr.  Calvert,  was  soon  upon  the 
spot,  and  while  Ned  Hinkley  was  despatched  to  the  village 
for  assistance,  he  took  himself  the  charge  of  recovering  tho 
unconscious  maiden.  Half-forgetting  his  hostility,  William 
Hinkley  undertook  the  same  good  service  to  Stevens,  who 
really  seemed  to  need  succor  much  more  than  his  fair  com 
panion.  While  William  Hinkley  busied  himself  by  rolling, 
friction,  fanning,  and  other  practices,  employed  in  such 
cases,  to  bring  his  patient  back  to  life,  he  could  not  forbear 
an  occasional  glance  to  the  spot  where,  at  a  little  distance, 
lay  the  object  of  his  affections. 


SOUSING   A   GURNET.  195 

Her  face  was  toward  him,  as  she  lay  upon  her  side.  Her 
head  was  supported  on  the  lap  of  the  old  man.  Her  long 
hair  hung  dishevelled,  of  a  more  glossy  black  now  when 
filled  with  water.  Her  eyes  were  shut,  and  the  dark 
fringes  of  their  lids  lay  like  a  pencil-streak  across  the  pale, 
prominent  orbs  which  they  served  to  bind  together.  The 
glow  of  indignant  pride  with  which  she  was  wont  to  receive 
his  approaches  had  all  disappeared  in  the  mortal  struggle 
for  life  through  which  she  had  lately  gone ;  and  pure,  as 
seemingly  free  from  every  passion,  her  pale  beauties  ap 
peared  to  his  doating  eye  the  very  perfection  of  human 
loveliness.  Her  breast  now  heaved  convulsively — deep 
sighs  poured  their  way  through  her  parted  lips.  Her  eyes 
alternately  opened  upon  but  shut  against  the  light,  and, 
finally,  the  exertions  of  the  old  man  were  rewarded  as  the 
golden  gleam  of  expression  began  to  relight  and  reillumine 
those  features  which  seemed  never  to  be  without  it. 

She  recovered  her  consciousness,  started  up,  made  an 
effort  to  rise,  but,  reeling  with  inability,  sunk  down  again 
into  the  paternal  grasp  of  the  old  man. 

"  Mr.  Calvert !"  she  murmured. 

"  You  are  safe,  my  daughter,"  said  the  old  man. 

"  But  how  did  it  happen  ? — where  am  I  ?" 

«  By  the  lake." 

"  Ah  !  I  remember.  I  was  drowning.  I  felt  it  all — the 
choking — the  struggle — the  water  in  my  ears  and  eyes! 
It  was  a  dreadful  feeling.  How  did  I  come  here  ?  Who 
saved  me  ?" 

"  Ned  Hinkley  brought  you  to  land,  but  he  was  helped 
by  his  cousin  William,  who  assisted  the  stranger." 

"  The  stranger  ?  ah !  yes,  I  remember :  but  where  is  he  ?" 

She  looked  around  wildly  and  anxiously,  and  beholding 
William  Hinkley  at  a  little  distance,  busy  with  the  still  un 
conscious  form  of  Stevens,  a  quick,  fearful  shudder  passed 
over  her  frame.  She  almost  crouched  into  the  old  man's 
arms  as  she  asked,  in  husky  accents — 


196  CHARLEMONT. 

"  He  is  not  dead — he  lives  ?" 

"  I  hope  so.     He  breathes." 

She  waited  for  no  more,  but,  starting  to  her  feet,  she 
staggered  to  the  spot  where  Stevens  lay.  The  old  man 
would  have  prevented  her. 

"  You  are  feeble  ;  you  will  do  yourself  harm.  Better,  if 
you  are  able  to  walk,  hurry  homeward  with  me,  when  you 
can  change  your  clothes." 

"  Would  you  have  me  ungrateful  ?"  she  exclaimed  ;  "  shall 
I  neglect  him  when  he  risked  his  life  for  me  ?" 

There  was  a  consciousness  in  her  mind  that  it  was  not  all 
gratitude  which  moved  her,  for  the  deathly  paleness  of  her 
cheek  was  now  succeeded  by  a  warm  blush  which  denoted 
a  yet  stronger  and  warmer  emotion.  The  keen  eyes  of 
William  Hinkley  understood  the  meaning  of  this  significant 
but  unsyllabling  mode  of  utterance,  and  his  eyes  spoke  the 
reproach  to  hers  which  his  lips  left  unsaid : — 

"  Ah  !  did  I  not  risk  my  life  too,  to  prevent — to  save  ? 
When  would  she  feel  such  an  interest  in  me  ?  when  would 
she  look  thus  were  my  life  at  stake  ?" 

"  He  will  not  be  neglected,"  said  the  old  man,  gently 
endeavoring  to  restrain  her.  Perhaps  she  would  not  have 
given  much  heed  to  the  interruption,  for  hers  was  the 
strength  of  an  unfettered  will,  one  accustomed  to  have  way, 
but  that,  at  this  moment,  the  eyes  of  Stevens  unclosed  and 
met  her  own.  His  consciousness  had  returned,  and,  under 
the  increasing  expression  in  his  looks,  she  sunk  back,  and 
permitted  the  old  man  to  lead  her  along  the  homeward 
path.  More  than  once  she  looked  back,  but,  with  the  assu 
rance  of  Mr.  Calvert  that  there  was  no  more  danger  to  be 
apprehended,  she  continued  to  advance ;  the  worthy  old 
man,  as  they  went,  seeking  to  divert  her  mind,  by  pleasant 
and  choice  anecdotes  of  which  his  memory  had  abundant 
stores,  from  dwelling  upon  the  unpleasant  and  exciting 
event  which  had  just  taken  place. 

Margaret  Cooper,  whose  habits  previously  had  kept  her 


SOUSING   A   GUENET.  197 

from  much  intimacy  with  the  village  sage,  was  insensibly 
taken  by  his  gentleness,  the  purity  of  his  taste,  the  choice- 
ness  of  his  expression,  the  extent  of  his  resources.  She 
wondered  how  a  mind  so  full  should  have  remained  un 
known  to  her  so  long — committing  the  error,  very  common 
to  persons  of  strong  will  and  determined  self-esteem,  of  as 
suming  that  she  should,  as  a  matter  of  inevitable  necessity, 
have  known  everything  and  everybody  of  which  the  knowl 
edge  is  at  all  desirable. 

In  pleasant  discourse  he  beguiled  her  progress,  until  Ned 
Hinkley  was  met  returning  with  horses — the  pathway  did 
not  admit  of  a  vehicle,  and  the  village  had  none  less  cum 
brous  than  cart  and  wagon — on  one  of  which  she  mounted, 
refusing  all  support  or  assistance ;  and  when  Mr.  Calvert 
insisted  upon  walking  beside  her,  she  grasped  the  bough 
of  a  tree,  broke  off  a  switch,  and,  giving  an  arch  but  good- 
natured  smile  and  nod  to  the  old  man,  laid  it  smartly  over 
the  horse's  flank,  and  in  a  few  moments  was  out  of  sight. 

"The  girl  is  smart,"  said  Calvert,  as  he  followed  her 
retreating  form  with  his  eye — "too  smart!  She  speaks 
well — has  evidently  read.  No  wonder  that  William  loves 
her ;  but  she  will  never  do  for  him.  She  has  no  humility. 
Pride  is  the  demon  in  her  heart.  Pride  will  overthrow 
her.  These  woods  spoil  her.  Solitude  is  the  natural  nurse 
of  self-esteem,  particularly  where  it  is  strong  at  first,  and 
is  coupled  with  anything  like  talent.  Better  for  such  a 
one  if  sickness,  and  strife,  and  suffering,  had  taken  her  at 
the  cradle,  and  nursed  her  with  the  milk  of  self-denial, 
which  is  the  only  humility  worth  having.  And  yet,  why 
should  I  speak  of  her,  when  the  sting  remains  in  my  own 
soul — when  I  yet  feel  the  pang  of  my  feebleness  and  self- 
reproach  ?  Alas !  I  should  school  none.  The  voice  speaks 
to  me  ever,  '  Old  man,  to  thy  prayers !  Thy  own  knees  are 
yet  stubborn  as  thy  neck !' ' 

Leaving  him  to  the  becoming  abasement  of  that  delusive 
self-comfort  which  ministers  to  our  vain-glory,  and  which 


198  CHARLEMONT. 

ft 

this  good  old  man  had  so  happily  succeeded  in  rebuking, 
we  will  return  to  the  spot  where  we  left  our  other  parties. 
Ned  Hinkley  had  already  joined  them.  With  his  horse  he 
had  providently  brought  a  suit  of  his  own  clothes  for  the 
stranger,  which,  though  made  of  homespun,  and  not  of  the 
most  modern  fashion,  were  yet  warm  and  comfortable,  and 
as  Stevens  was  compelled  to  think,  infinitely  preferable  to 
the  chilly  and  dripping  garments  which  he  wore.  A  few 
moments,  in  the  cover  of  the  woods,  sufficed  the  neophyte 
to  make  the  alteration  ;  while  the  two  cousins,  to  whom  the 
exigencies  of  forester  and  fisherman  life  were  more  familiar, 
prepared  to  walk  the  water  out  of  their  own  habits,  by  giv 
ing  rapid  circulation  to  their  blood  and  limbs.  While  their 
preparations  were  in  progress,  however,  Ned  Hinkley  could 
not  deny  himself  the  pleasure  of  discoursing  at  length  on 
the  subject  of  the  late  disaster. 

"  Stranger,"  he  said,  "  I  must  tell  you  that  you've  had 
a  souse  in  as  fine  a  fishing-pond  as  you'll  meet  with  from 
here  to  Salt  river.  I  reckon,  now,  that  while  you  were  in, 
you  never  thought  for  a  moment  of  the  noble  trout  that 
inhabit  it." 

"  I  certainly  did  not,"  said  the  other. 

"  There,  now !  I  could  have  sworn  it.  That  a  man  should 
go  with  his  eyes  open  into  a  country  without  ever  asking 
what  sort  of  folks  lived  there  !  Isn't  it  monstrous  ?" 

"  It  certainly  seems  like  a  neglect  of  the  first  duty  of  a 
traveller,"  said  Stevens  good-humoredly ;  "let  me  not  show 
myself  heedless  of  another.  Let  me  thank  you,  gentlemen, 
for  saving  my  life.  I  believe  I  owe  it  to  one  or  both  of 
you." 

"  To  him,  not  to  me,"  said  Ned  Hinkley,  pointing  to  his 
cousin.  William  was  at.  a  little  distance,  looking  sullenly 
upon  the  two  with  eyes  which,  if  dark  and  moody,  seemed 
to  denote  a  thought  which  was  anywhere  else  but  in  the 
scene  around  him. 

"  He  saved  you,  and  I  saved  the  woman.     I  wouldn't 


SOUSING   A   GURNET.  199 

have  a  woman  drowned  in  this  lake  for  all  the  houses  in 
Oharlemont." 

"Ah!  why?" 

"  'Twould  spoil  it  for  fishing  for  ever." 

"  Why  would  a  woman  do  this  more  than  a  man  ?" 

"  For  a  very  good  reason,  my  friend.  Because  the  ghost 
of  a  woman  talks,  and  a  man's  don't,  they  say.  The  ghost 
of  a  man  says  what  it  wants  to  say  with  its  eyes  ;  a  woman's 
with  her  tongue.  You  know  there's  nothing  scares  fish  so 
much  as  one's  talking." 

"  I  have  heard  so.  But  is  it  so  clear  that  there  is  such 
a  difference  between  ghosts  ?  How  is  it  known  that  the 
female  does  all  the  talking  ?" 

"  Oh,  that's  beyond  dispute.  There's  a  case  that  we  all 
know  about — all  here  in  Charlemont — the  case  of  Joe  Bar 
ney's  millpond.  Barney  lost  one  of  his  children  and  one 
of  his  negroes  in  the  pond — drowned  as  a  judgment,  they 
say,  for  fishing  a  Sunday.  That  didn't  make  any  difference 
with  the  fish :  you  could  catch  them  there  just  the  same  as 
before.  But  when  old  Mrs.  Frey  fell  in,  crossing  the  dam, 
the  case  was  altered.  You  might  sit  there  for  hours  and 
days,  night  and  day,  and  bob  till  you  were  weary ;  devil  a 
bite  after  that !  Now,  what  could  make  the  difference  but 
the  tongue  ?  Mother  Frey  had  a  tongue  of  her  own,  I  tell 
you.  'Twas  going  when  she  fell  in,  and  I  reckon's  been 
going  ever  since.  She  was  a  sulphury,  spiteful  body,  to 
be  sure,  and  some  said  she  poisoned  the  fish  if  she  didn't 
scare  them.  To  my  thinking,  'twas  the  tongue." 

Stevens  had  been  something  seduced  from  his  gravity  by 
the  blunt  humor  and  unexpected  manner  of  Ned  Hinkley; 
besides,  having  been  served,  if  not  saved,  by  his  hands, 
something,  perhaps,  of  attention  was  due  to  what  he  had 
to  say ;  but  he  recollected  the  assumed  character  which  he 
had  to  maintain — something  doubtful,  too,  if  he  had  not 
already  impaired  it  in  the  sight  and  hearing  of  those  who 
had  come  so  opportunely  but  so  unexpectedly  to  his  relief. 


200  CHARLEMONT. 

He  recovered  his  composure  and  dignity ;  forbore  to  smile 
at  the  story  which  might  otherwise  have  provoked  not  only 
smile  but  corresponding  answer ;  and,  by  the  sudden  cool 
ness  of  his  manner,  tended  to  confirm  in  Ned  Hinkley's 
bosom  the  half-formed  hostility  which  the  cause  of  his 
cousin  had  originally  taught  him  to  feel. 

"  I'll  lick  the  conceit  out  of  him  yet !"  he  muttered,  as 
Stevens,  turning  away,  ascended  to  the  spot  where  William 
Hinkley  stood. 

"  I  owe  you  thanks,  Mr.  Hinkley,"  he  began. 

The  young  man  interrupted  him. 

"  You  owe  me  nothing,  sir,"  he  answered  hastily,  and 
prepared  to  turn  away. 

"  You  have  saved  my  life,  sir." 

"  I  should  have  saved  your  dog's  life,  sir,  in  the  same 
situation.  I  have  done  but  an  act  of  duty." 

"  But,  Mr.  Hinkley—" 

"  Your  horse  is  ready  for  you,  sir,"  said  the  young  man, 
turning  off  abruptly,  and  darting  up  the  sides  of  the  hill,  re 
mote  from  the  pathway,  and  burying  himself  in  the  contig 
uous  forests. 

"  Strange  !"  exclaimed  the  neophyte  —  "  this  is  very 
strange  !" 

"  Not  so  strange,  stranger,  as  that  I  should  stand  your 
groom,  without  being  brought  up  to  such  a  business  for  any 
man.  Here's  your  nag,  sir." 

"I  thank  you — I  would  not  willingly  trespass,"  he  re 
plied,  as  he  relieved  our  angler  from  his  grasp  upon  the 
bridle. 

"  You're  welcome  without  the  thanks,  stranger.  I  reckon 
you  know  the  route  you  come.  Up  hill,  follow  the  track 
to  the  top,  take  the  left  turn  to  the  valley,  then  you'll  see 
the  houses,  and  can  follow  your  own  nose  or  your  nag's. 
Either's  straight  enough  to  carry  you  to  his  rack.  You'll 
find  your  clothes  at  your  boarding-house  about  the  time 
that  you'll  get  there." 


SOUSING   A   GURNET.  201 

"Nay,  sir,  I  already  owe  you  much.  Let  them  not 
trouble  you.  I  will  take  them  myself." 

"  No,  no,  stranger  !"  was  the  reply  of  our  fisherman,  as 
he  stooped  down  and  busied  himself  in  making  the  garments 
into  a  compact  bundle  ;  "  I'm  not  the  man  to  leave  off  with 
out  doing  the  thing  I  begin  to  do.  I  sometimes  do  more 
than  I  bargain  for — sometimes  lick  a  man  soundly  when  I 
set  out  only  to  tweak  his  nose ;  but  I  make  it  a  sort  of 
Christian  law  never  to  do  less.  You  may  reckon  to  find 
your  clothes  home  by  the  time  you  get  there.  There's  your 
road." 

"  A  regular  pair  of  cubs !"  muttered  the  horseman,  as  he 
ascended  the  hill. 

"  To  purse  up  his  mouth  as  if  I  was  giving  him  root- 
drink,  when  I  was  telling  him  about  Mother  Frey's  spoiling 
the  fish !  Let  him  take  care — he  may  get  the  vinegar  next 
time,  and  not  the  fish !" 

And,  with  these  characteristic  commentaries,  the  parties 
separated  for  the  time. 

9* 


202  CHARLEMONT. 


CHAPTER   XVII. 

PHILOSOPHY  OF  FIGHTING. 

"  YOU'RE  not  a  fighter,  Bill  Hinkley,  and  that's  about  the 
worst  fault  that  I  can  find  against  you." 

Such  was  the  beginning  of  a  dialogue  between  the  cous 
ins  some  three  days  after  the  affair  which  was  narrated  in 
our  last  chapter.  The  two  young  men  were  at  the  house 
of  the  speaker,  or  rather  at  his  mother's  house ;  where,  a 
favorite  and  only  son,  he  had  almost  supreme  dominion. 
He  was  putting  his  violin  in  tune,  and  the  sentences  were 
spoken  at  intervals  with  the  discordant  scraps  of  sound 
which  were  necessarily  elicited  by  this  unavoidable  musical 
operation.  These  sounds  might  be  said  to  form  a  running 
accompaniment  for  the  dialogue,  and,  considering  the  som 
bre  mood  of  the  person  addressed,  they  were,  perhaps,  far 
more  congenial  than  any  more  euphonious  strains  would 
have  been. 

"  Not  a  fighter !"  said  the  other ;  "  why,  what  do  you 
mean?" 

"Why, just  what  I  say — you  are  not  a  fighter.  You 
love  reading,  and  fiddling,  and  fishing  sometimes,  and  some 
times  dancing,  and  hunting,  and  swimming  ;  but  I'm  pretty 
certain  you  don't  love  fighting.  You  needn't  contradict, 
Bill — I've  been  thinking  the  matter  over ;  and  I'm  sure  of 
it.  I  recollect  every  battle  or  scrape  you  ever  were  in, 
from  the  time  we  went  to  old  Chandler's,  and  I  tell  you, 
you're  not  a  fighter — you  don't  love  fighting !" 


PHILOSOPHY   OF   FIGHTING.  203 

This  was  concluded  with  a  tremendous  scrape  over  the 
strings,  which  seemed  to  say  as  well  as  scrape  could  speak 
— "  There  can  be  no  mistake  on  the  subject — I've  said  it." 

"  If  I  knew  exactly  what  you  were  driving  at,"  said  the 
other,  "  perhaps  I  might  answer  you.  I  never  pretended 
to  be  a  fighter ;  and  as  for  loving  it,  as  I  love  eating,  drink 
ing,  books,  fiddling,  and  dancing,  why  that  needs  no  an 
swer.  Of  course  I  do  not,  and  I  don't  know  who  does." 

"  There  it  is.  I  told  you.  I  knew  it.  You'd  sooner  do 
almost  anything  than  fight." 

"  If  you  mean  that  I  would  submit  to  insult,"  said  the 
more  peaceable  cousin,  with  some  displeasure  in  his  tones 
and  countenance,  "  sooner  than  resent  it,  you  are  very  much 
mistaken.  It  wouldn't  be  advisable  even  for  you  to  try  the 
experiment." 

"  Pohj  poh,  Bill,  you  know  for  that  matter  that  it 
wouldn't  take  much  trying.  I'd  lick  you  as  easily  now  as 
I  did  when  we  were  boys  together." 

"  We  are  boys  no  longer,"  said  the  other  gravely. 

"  I'm  as  much  a  boy  as  ever,  so  far  as  the  licking  capa 
city  calls  for  boyhood.  I've  pretty  much  the  same  spirit 
now  that  I  had  then,  and  ten  times  the  same  strength  and 
activity.  But  don't  look  so  blue.  I'm  not  going  to  try  my 
strength  and  spirit  and  activity  on  you.  And  don't  sup 
pose,  Bill  Hinkley,  that  I  mean  to  say  you're  anything  of 
a  coward,  or  that  you'd  submit  to  any  open  insult;  but 
still  I  do  say,  you're  not  only  not  fond  of  fighting,  but 
you're  just  not  as  much  inclined  that  way  as  you  should 
be." 

"  Indeed  !  what  more  would  you  have  ?  Do  you  not  say 
that  I  would  not  submit  to  insult  ? — that  I  show  the  proper 
degree  of  courage  in  such  cases  ?" 

"Not  the  proper  degree.  That's  the  very  question. 
You're  not  quick  enough.  You  wait  for  the  first  blow. 
You  don't  step  out  to  meet  the  enemy.  You  look  for  him 
to  come  to,  you." 


204  CHARLEMONT. 

"  Surely  !  I  look  upon  fighting  as  brutal — to  be  waited 
for,' not  sought — to  be  resorted  to  only  in  compliance  with 
necessity — to  be  avoided  to  the  last!" 

"No  such  thing — all  a  mistake.  Fighting  and  the  de 
sire  to  get  on  the  shoulders  of  our  neighbors  is  a  natural 
passion.  We  see  that  every  day.  The  biggest  boy  licks 
the  one  just  below  him,  he  whips  the  next,  and  so  down, 
and  there's  not  one  that  don't  lick  somebody  and  don't 
stand  licked  himself — for  the  master  licks  the  biggest. 
The  desire  to  fight  and  flog  is  natural,  and  this  being  the 
case,  it  stands  to  reason  that  we  must  lick  our  neighbor  or 
he'll  be  sure  to  lick  us." 

"  Pshaw !  you  speak  like  a  boy  yet.  This  is  schoolhouse 
philosophy." 

"And  very  good  philosophy  too.  I'm  thinking  the 
schoolhouse  and  the  play-ground  is  pretty  much  a  sort  of 
world  to  itself.  It's  no  bad  show  of  what  the  world  with 
out  is ;  and  one  of  its  first  lessons  and  that  which  I  think 
the  truest,  is  the  necessity  of  having  a  trial  of  strength 
with  every  new-comer ;  until  we  learn  where  he's  to  stand 
in  the  ranks,  number  one  or  number  nothing.  You  see 
there  just  the  same  passions,  though,  perhaps,  on  a  small 
scale,  that  we  afterward  find  to  act  ujton  the  big  world  of 
manhood.  There,  we  fight  for  gingerbread,  for  marbles, 
top  and  ball ;  not  unfrequently  because  we  venture  to  look 
at  our  neighbor's  sweetheart ;  and  sometimes,  quite  as 
often,  for  the  love  of  the  thing  and  to  know  where  the 
spirit  and  the  sinew  are.  Well,  isn't  that  just  what  the 
big  world  does  after  us  ?  As  men,  we  fight  for  bigger  play- 
things,  for  pounds,  where  before  we  fought  for  pence — for 
gold  where  before  we  fought  for  coppers — for  command  of 
a  country  instead  of  a  schoolyard ;  for  our  wives  instead 
of  sweethearts,  and  through  sheer  deviltry  and  the  love  of 
the  thing,  when  there's  nothing  else  to  fight  about,  just  the 
same  as  we  did  in  boyhood*" 

"  But  even  were  you  to  prove,  and  I  to  admit,  that  it  is 


PHILOSOPHY   OP   FIGHTING.  205 

so,  just  as  you  say,  that  would  not  prove  the  practice  to 
be  a  jot  more  proper,  or  a  jot  less  brutal." 

"  Begging  your  pardon,  Bill,  it  proves  it  to  be  right  and 
proper,  and  accordingly,  if  brutal,  a  becoming  brutality. 
If  this  is  the  natural  disposition  of  bfiys  and  men,  don't 
you  see  that  this  schoolboy  licking  and  fighting  is  a  neces 
sary  part  of  one's  moral  education  ?  It  learns  one  to  use 
his  strength,  his  limbs  and  sinews,  as  he  may  be  compelled 
to  use  them,  in  self-defence,  in  every  future  day  of  his  life. 
You  know  very  well  what  follows  a  boy  at  school  who 
doesn't  show  himself  ready  to  bung  up  his  neighbor's  eye 
the  moment  he  sees  it  at  a  cross-twinkle.  He  gets  his  own 
bunged  up.  Well,  it's  just  the  same  thing  when  he  gets 
to  be  a  man.  If  you  have  a  dispute  with  your  enemy,  I 
don't  say  that  you  shouldn't  reason  with  him,  but  I  do  say 
that  your  reasoning  will  have  very  little  effect  upon  him 
unless  he  sees  that  you  are  able  and  willing  to  write  it  in 
black  and  blue  upon  his  sheepskin.  And  what  better  way 
could  you  find  to  show  him  that,  unless  by  giving  him 
word  and  blow,  the  blow  first,  as  being  the  most  impressive 
argument  ?" 

"  You  must  have  been  dreaming  of  these  subjects  last 
night,"  said  the  grave  cousin — "you  seem  to  have  them 
unusually  well  cut  and  dried." 

"  I  haven't  been  dreaming  about  it,  Bill,  but  I  confess 
I've  been  thinking  about  it  very  seriously  all  night,  and 
considering  all  the  arguments  that  I  thought  you  would 
make  use  of  against  it.  I  haven't  quite  done  with  my  dis 
cussion,  which  I  took  up  entirely  for  your  benefit." 

"  Indeed !  you  are  quite  philanthropic  before  breakfast ; 
but  let  us  hear  you  ?" 

"You  talk  of  the  brutality  of  fighting — now  in  what 
does  that  brutality  consist  ?  Is  it  not  in  breaking  noses, 
kicking  shins,  bunging  up  eyes,  and  making  one's  neigh 
bor  feel  uncomfortable  in  thigh,  and  back,  and  arms,  and 


206  CHARLEMONT. 

face,  and  skin,  and  indeed,  everywhere,  where  a  big  fist  or 
a  cowhide  shoe  may  plant  a  buffet  or  a  bruise  ?" 

"  Quite  a  definition,  Ned." 

"  I'm  glad  you  think  so :  for  if  it's  brutal  in  the  boy  to 
do  so  to  his  schoolfhate,  is  it  less  so  for  the  schoolmaster 
to  do  the  same  thing  to  the  boy  that's  under  his  charge  ? 
He  bruises  my  skin,  makes  my  thighs,  and  arms,  and  back, 
and  legs,  and  face,  and  hands,  ache,  and  if  my  definition  be 
a  correct  one,  he  is  quite  as  brutal  as  the  boys  who  do  the 
same  thing  to  one  another." 

"  He  does  it  because  the  boys  deserve  it,  and  in  order  to 
make  them  obedient  and  active." 

"  And  when  did  a  boy  not  deserve  a  flogging  when  he 
gets  licked  by  his  companion  ?"  demanded  the  other  tri 
umphantly — "  and  don't  the  licking  make  him  obedient, 
and  don't  the  kicking  make  him  active  ?  By  gemini,  I've 
seen  more  activity  from  one  chap's  legs  under  the  quick 
application  of  another's  feet,  than  I  think  anything  else 
could  produce,  unless  it  were  feet  made  expressly  for  such 
a  purpose  and  worked  by  a  steam-engine.  That  might 
make  them  move  something  faster,  but  I  reckon  there 
would  be  no  need  in  such  a  case  of  any  such  improve 
ment." 

"  What  are  you  driving  at,  Ned  Hinkley  ?  This  is  by 
far  the  longest  argument,  I  think,  that  you've  ever  under 
taken.  You  must  be  moved  by  some  very  serious  consid 
erations." 

"  I  am,  and  you'll  see  what  I'm  driving  at  after  a  little 
while.  I'm  not  fond  of  arguing,  you  know,  but  I  look 
upon  the  fighting  principle  as  a  matter  to  be  known  and 
believed  in,  and  I  wish  to  make  clear  to  you  my  reasons 
for  believing  in  it  myself.  You  don't  suppose  I'd  put  down 
the  fiddle  for  a  talk  at  any  time  if  the  subject  was  not  a 
serious  one  ?" 

"  Give  way  —  you  have  the  line." 

"  About  the  brutality  of  fighting  then,  there's  another 


PHILOSOPHY   OF   FIGHTING.  207 

thing  to  be  said.  Fighting  produces  good  feeling  —  that  is 
to  say  supposing  one  party  fairly  to  have  licked  another." 

"Indeed  — that's  new." 

"  And  true  too,  Bill  Hinkley.  It  cures  the  sulks.  It 
lets  off  steam.  It's  like  a  thunderstorm  that  comes  once  in 
a  while,  and  drives  away  the  clouds,  and  clears  the  skies 
until  all's  blue  again." 

"  Black  and  blue." 

"  No  !  what  was  black  becomes  blue.  Chaps  that  have 
been  growling  at  each  other  for  weeks  and  months  lose  their 
bad  blood—" 

"  From  the  nostrils  !" 

"  Yes,  from  the  nostrils.  It's  a  sort  of  natural  channel, 
and  runs  freely  from  that  quarter.  The  one  crows  and  the 
other  runs  and  there's  an  end  of  the  scrape  and  the  sulks. 
The  weaker  chap,  feeling  his  weakness,  ceases  to  be  im 
pudent  ;  the  stronger,  having  his  power  acknowledged,  be 
comes  the  protector  of  the  weak.  Each  party  falls  into  his 
place,  and  so  far  from  the  licking  producing  bad  feeling  it 
produces  good  feeling  and  good  humor;  and  I  conclude 
that  one  half  of  the  trouble  in  the  world,  the  squabbles  be 
tween  man  and  man.  woman  and  woman,  boy  and  boy  — 
nay,  between  rival  nations  —  is  simply  because  your  false 
and  foolish  notions  of  brutality  and  philanthropy  keep  them 
from  coming  to  the  scratch  as  soon  as  they  should.  They 
hang  off,  growling  and  grumbling,  and  blackguarding,  and 
blaspheming,  when,  if  they  would  only  take  hold,  and  come 
to  an  earnest  grapple,  the  odds  would  soon  show  themselves 
—  broken  heads  and  noses  would  follow  —  the  bad  blood 
would  run,  and  as  soon  as  each  party  found  his  level,  the 
one  being  finally  on  his  back,  peace  would  ensue,  and  there 
would  be  good  humor  for  ever  after,  or  at  least  until  the 
blood  thickened  again.  I  think  there's  reason  in  my  no 
tion.  I  was  thinking  it  over  half  the  night.  I've  thought 
of  it  oftentimes  before.  I've  never  yet  seen  the  argument 
that's  strong  enough  to  tumble  it." 


208  CHARLEMONT. 

"Your  views  are  certainly  novel,  Ned,  if  not  sound. 
You  will  excuse  me  if  I  do  not  undertake  to  dispute  them 
this  morning.  I  give  in,  therefore,  and  you  may  congrat 
ulate  yourself  upon  having  gained  a  triumph  if  not  a  con 
vert  ?" 

"  Stop,  stop,  William  Hinkley:  you  don't  suppose  I've 
done  all  this  talking  only  to  make  a  convert  or  to  gain  a 
triumph  ?" 

"  Why,  that's  your  object  in  fighting,  why  not  in  argu 
ing?"  ' 

"  Well,  that's  the  object  of  most  persons  when  they  dis 
pute,  I  know ;  but  it  is  not  mine.  I  wish  to  make  a  prac 
tical  application  of  my  doctrine." 

"  Indeed  !  who  do  you  mean  to  fight  now  ?" 

"  It's  not  for  me  to  fight,  it's  for  you." 

"  Me !" 

"  Yes ;  you  have  the  preference  by  rights,  though  if  you 
don't — and  I'm  rather  sorry  to  think,  as  I  told  you  at  the 
start,  that  the  only  fault  I  had  to  find  with  you  is  that  you're 
not  a  fighter  —  I  must  take  your  place  and  settle  the  differ 
ence." 

William  Hinkley  turned  upon  the  speaker.  The  latter 
had  laid  down  the  violin,  having,  in  the  course  of  the  ar 
gument,  broken  all  its  strings ;  and  he  stood  now,  unjack- 
eted,  and  still  in  the  chamber,  where  the  two  young  men 
had  been  sleeping,  almost  in  the  attitude  of  one  about  to 
grapple  with  an  antagonist.  The  serious  face  of  him  whose 
voice  had  been  for  war  —  his  startling  position  —  the  un 
wonted  eagerness  of  his  eye,  and  the  ludicrous  importance 
which  he  attached  to  the  strange  principle  which  he  had 
been  asserting  —  conquered  for  a  moment  the  graver  mood 
of  his  love-sick  companion,  and  he  laughed  outright  at  his 
pugnacious  cousin.  The  latter  seemed  a  little  offended. 

"  It's  well  you  can  laugh  at  such  things,  Bill  Hinkley, 
but  I  can't.  There  was  a  time  when  every  mother's  son 
in  Kentucky  was  a  man,  and  could  stand  up  to  his  rack 


PHILOSOPHY   OF   FIGHTING.  209 

with  the  best.  If  he  couldn't  keep  the  top  place,  he  went 
a  peg  lower :  but  he  made  out  to  keep  the  place  for  which 
he  was  intended.  Then,  if  a  man  disliked  his  neighbor  he 
crossed  over  to  him  and  said  so,  and  they  went  at  it  like 
men,  and  as  soon  as  the  pout  was  over  they  shook  hands, 
and  stood  side  by  side,  and  shoulder  to  shoulder,  like  jtrue 
friends,  in  every  danger,  and  never  did  fellows  fight  better 
against  Indians  and  British  than  the  same  two  men,  that 
had  lapped  muscles,  and  rolled  in  the  grain  together  till 
you  couldn't  say  whose  was  whose,  and  which  was  which, 
till  the  best  man  jumped  up,  and  shook  himself,  and  gave 
the  word  to  crow.  After  that  it  was  all  peace  and  good 
humor,  and  they  drank  and  danced  together,  and  it  didn't 
lessen  a  man  in  his  sweetheart's  eyes,  though  he  was  licked, 
if  he  could  say  he  had  stood  up  like  a  man,  and  was  down 
ed  after  a  good  hug,  because  he  couldn't  help  it.  Now, 
there's  precious  little  of  that.  The  chap  that  dislikes  his 
fellow,  hasn't  the  soul  to  say  it  out,  but  he  goes  aside  and 
sneers  and  snickers,  and  he  whispers  things  that  breed 
slanders,  and  scandals,  and  bad  blood,  until  there's  no 
trusting  anybody ;  and  everything  is  full  of  hate  and  en 
mity  —  but  then  it's  so  peaceful !  Peaceful,  indeed !  as  if 
there  was  any  peace  where  there  is  no  confidence,  and  no 
love,  and  no  good  feeling  either  for  one  thing  or  another." 

"  Really,  Ned,  it  seems  to  me  you're  indignant  without 
any  occasion.  I  am  tempted  to  laugh  at  you  again." 

"  No,  don't.     You'd  better  not." 

"  Ha !  ha !  ha !  I  can  not  help  it,  Ned ;  so  don't  buffet 
me.  You  forced  me  into  many  a  fight  when  I  was  a  boy, 
for  which  I  had  no  stomach  ;  I  trust  you  will  not  pummel 
me  yourself  because  the  world  has  grown  so  hatefully  pa 
cific.  Tell  me,  in  plain  terms,  who  I  am  to  fight  now." 

"  Who !  who  but  Stevens  ?  —  this  fellow  Stevens.  He's 
your  enemy,  you  say  —  comes  between  you  and  your  sweet 
heart —  between  you  and  your  own  mother  —  seems  to  look 
down  upon  you  —  speaks  to  you  as  if  he  was  wiser,  and 


210  CHARLEMONT. 

better,  and  superior  in  every  way  —  makes  you  sad  and 
sulky  to  your  best  friends  —  you  growl  and  grumble  at  him 
—  you  hate  him  —  you  fear  him — " 

"  Fear  him !" 

"  Yes,  yes,  I  say  fear  him,  for  it's  a  sort  of  fear  to  skulk 
off  from  your  mother's  house  to  avoid  seeing  him — " 

"  What,  Ned,  do  you  tell  me  that  —  do  you  begrudge  me 
a  place  with  you  here,  my  bed,  my  breakfast  ?" 

"  Begrudge !  dang  it,  William  Hinkley,  don't  tell  me 
that,  unless  you  want  me  to  lay  heavy  hand  on  your  shoul 
der!" —  and  the  tears  gushed  into  the  rough  fellow's  eyes 
as  he  spoke  these  words,  and  he  turned  off  to  conceal  them. 

"  I  don't  mean  to  vex  you,  Ned,  but  why  tell  me  that  I 
skulk  —  that  I  fear  this  man  ?" 

"  Begrudge  !"  muttered  the  other. 

"  Nay,  forgive  me ;  I  didn't  mean  it.  I  was  hasty  when 
I  said  so  ;  but  you  also  said  things  to  provoke  me.  Do  you 
suppose  that  I  fear  this  man  Stevens  ?" 

"  Why  don't  you  lick  him  then,  or  let  him  lick  you,  and 
bring  the  matter  to  an  ending  ?  Find  out  who's  the  best 
man,  and  put  an  end  to  the  growling  and  the  groaning.  As 
it  now  stands  you're  not  the  same  person  —  you're  not  fit 
company  for  any  man.  You  scarcely  talk,  you  listen  to 
nobody.  You  won't  fish,  you  won't  hunt:  you're  sulky 
yourself  and  you  make  other  people  so !" 

"  I'm  afraid,  Ned,  it  wouldn't  much  help  the  matter  even 
if  I  were  to  chastise  the  stranger." 

"  It  would  cure  him  of  his  impudence.  It  would  make 
him  know  how  to  treat  you ;  and  if  the  rest  of  your  griev 
ance  comes  from  Margaret  Cooper,  there's  a  way  to  end 
that  too." 

"  How  !  you  wouldn't  have  me  fight  her  ?"  said  William 
Hinkley,  with  an  effort  to  smile. 

"  Why,  we  may  call  it  fighting,"  said  the  advocate  for 
such  wholesale  pugnacity,  "  since  it  calls  for  quite  as  much 
courage  sometimes  to  face  one  woman  as  it  does  to  face 


PHILOSOPHY    OF   FIGHTING.  211 

three  men.  But  what  I  mean  that  you  should  do  with  her 
is  to  up  and  at  her.  Put  the  downright  question  like  a 
man, '  will  you  ?'  or  <  won't  you  ?'  and  no  more  beating  about 
the  bush.  If  she  says  '  no !'  there's  no  more  to  be  said,  and 
if  I  was  you  after  that,  I'd  let  Stevens  have  her  or  the 
d — 1  himself,  since  I'm  of  the  notion  that  no  woman  is 
fit  for  me  if  she  thinks  me  not  fit  for  her.  Such  a  woman 
can't  be  worth  having,  and  after  that  I  wouldn't  take  her 
as  a  gracious  gift  were  she  to  be  made  twice  as  beautiful. 
The  track's  before  you,  William  Hinkley.  Bring  the  stran 
ger  to  the  hug,  and  Margaret  Cooper  too,  if  she'll  let  you. 
But,  at  all  events,  get  over  the  grunting  and  the  growling, 
the  sulky  looks,  and  the  sour  moods.  They  don't  become 
a  man  who's  got  a  man's  heart,  and  the  sinews  of  a  man." 
William  Hinkley  leaned  against  the  fireplace  with  his 
head  resting  upon  his  hand.  The  other  approached  him. 

"  I  don't  mean  to  say  anything,  Bill,  or  even  to  look  any 
thing,  that'll  do  you  hurt.  I'm  for  bringing  your  trouble 
to  a  short  cut.  I've  told  you  what  I  think  right  and  reason 
able,  and  for  no  other  man  in  Kentucky  would  I  have  taken 
the  pains  to  think  out  this  matter  as  I  have  done.  But  you 
or  I  must  lick  Stevens." 

"  You  forget,  Ned.     Your  eagerness  carries  you  astray. 
Would  you  beat  a  man  who  offers  no  resistance  ?" 
"  Surely  not." 

"  Stevens  is  a  non-combatant.  If  you  were  to  slap  John 
Cross  on  one  cheek  he'd  turn  you  the  other.  He'd  never 
strike  you  back." 

"  John  Cross  and  Stevens  are  two  persons.     I  tell  you 
the  stranger  will  fight.     I'm  sure  of  it.     I've  seen  it  in  his 
looks  and  actions." 
"  Do  you  think  so  ?" 

"  I  do  ;  I'm  sure  of  it.  But  you  must  recollect  besides, 
that  John  Cross  is  a  preacher,  already  sworn  in,  as  I  may 
say.  Stevens  is  only  a  beginner.  Besides,  John  Cross  is 
an  old  man ;  Stevens,  a  young  one.  John  Cross  don't  care 


212  CHARLEMONT. 

a  straw  about  all  the  pretty  girls  in  the  country.  He 
works  in  the  business  of  souls,  not  beauties,  and  it's  very 
clear  that  Stevens  not  only  loves  a  pretty  girl,  but  that  he's 
over  head  and  heels  in  love  with  your  Margaret " 

"  Say  no  more.  If  he  will  fight,  Ned  Hinkley,  he  shall 
fight !" 

"  Bravo,  Bill  —  that's  all  that  I  was  arguing  for — that's 
all  that  I  want.  But  you  must  make  at  Margaret  Cooper 
also." 

"  Ah  !  Ned,  there  I  confess  my  fears." 

"  Why,  what  are  you  afraid  of?" 

"  Rejection !" 

"  Is  that  worse  than  this  suspense — this  anxiety — this 
looking  out  from  morning  till  night  for  the  sunshine,  and 
this  constant  apprehension  of  the  clouds — this  knowing  not 
what  to  be  about  —  this  sulking — thissadding — this  growl 
ing — this  grunting — this  muling — this  moping — this  eter 
nal  vinegar-face  and  ditchwater-spirit  ?" 

"I  don't  know,  Ned,  but  I  confess  my  weakness — my 
want  of  courage  in  this  respect !" 

"  Psho !  the  bark's  worse  always  than  the  bite.  The  fear 
worse  than  the  danger  !  Suspense  is  the  very  d — 1 !  Did 
you  ever  hear  of  the  Scotch  parson's  charity  ?  He  prayed 
that  God  might  suspend  Napoleon  over  the  very  jaws  of 
hell — but «  Oh,  Lord !'  said  he,  <  dinna  let  him  fa'  in!'  To 
my  mind,  mortal  lips  never  uttered  a  more  malignant 
prayer !" 


TRAILING   THE   FOX.  213 


CHAPTER    XVIII. 

TRAILING   THE   FOX. 

THIS  dialogue  was  broken  by  a  summons  to  the  breakfast- 
table.  We  have  already  intimated  that  while  the  hateful 
person  of  Stevens  was  an  inmate  of  his  own  house,  William 
Hinkley  remained,  the  better  portion,  of  his  time,  at  that  of 
his  cousin.  It  was  not  merely  that  Stevens  was  hateful  to 
his  sight,  but  such  was  the  devotion  of  his  father  and  mother 
to  that  adventurer,  that  the  young  man  passed  with  little 
notice  from  either,  or  if  he  incurred  their  attention  at  all, 
it  was  only  to  receive  their  rebuke.  He  had  not  been  able 
to  disguise  from  them  his  dislike  to  Stevens.  This  dislike 
showed  itself  in  many  ways — in  coldness,  distance,  silence 
—  a  reluctance  to  accord  the  necessary  civilities,  and  in 
very  unequivocal  glances  of  hostility  from  the  eyes  of  the 
jealous  young  villager. 

Such  offences  against  good-breeding  were  considered  by 
them  as  so  many  offences  against  God  himself,  shown  to 
one  who  was  about  to  profess  his  ministry  ;  and  being  pre 
pared  to  see  in  Brother  Stevens  an  object  of  worth  and 
veneration  only,  they  lacked  necessarily  all  that  keenness 
of  discrimination  which  might  have  helped  somewhat  to 
qualify  the  improprieties  of  which  they  believed  their  son 
to  be  guilty.  Of  his  causes  of  jealousy  they  had  no  sus 
picion,  and  they  shared  none  of  his  antipathies.  He  was 
subject  to  the  daily  lecture  from  the  old  man,  and  the 
nightly  exhortation  and  expostulation  of  the  old  woman. 


214  CHAELEMONT. 

The  latter  did  her  spiriting  gently.  The  former  roared 
and  thundered.  The  mother  implored  and  kissed  —  the 
father  denounced  and  threatened,  The  one,  amidst  the 
faults  of  her  son  which  she  reproved,  could  see  his  virtues  ; 
she  could  also  see  that  he  was  suffering — she  knew  not 
why  —  as  well  as  sinning;  the  other  could  only  see  an  in 
solent,  disobedient  boy  who  was  taking  airs  upon  himself, 
flying  in  the  face  of  his  parents,  and  doomed  to  perish  like 
the  sons  of  Eli,  unless  by  proving  himself  a  better  manager 
than  Eli,  he  addressed  himself  in  time  to  the  breaking  in 
of  the  unruly  spirit  whose  offences  promised  to  be  so  hein 
ous.  It  was  not  merely  from  the  hateful  sight  of  his  rival, 
or  the  monotonous  expostulation  of  his  mother,  that  the 
poor  youth  fled  ;  it  was  sometimes  to  escape  the  heavily 
chastening  hand  of  his  bigoted  father. 

These  things  worked  keenly  and  constantly  in  the  mind 
of  William  Hinkley.  They  acquired  additional  powers  of 
ferment  from  the  coldness  of  Margaret  Cooper,  and  from 
the  goadings  of  his  cousin.  Naturally  one  of  the  gentlest 
of  creatures,  the  young  man  was  not  deficient  in  spirit. 
What  seemed  to  his  more  rude  and  elastic  relative  a  token 
of  imbecility,  was  nothing  more  than  the  softening  influence 
of  his  reflective  and  mental  over  his  physical  powers.  These, 
under  the  excitement  of  his  blood  were  necessarily  made 
subject  to  his  animal  impulses,  and  when  he  left  the  house 
that  morning,  with  his  Blackstone  under  his  arm,  on  his  way 
to  the  peaceful  cottage  of  old  Calvert,  where  he  pursued 
his  studies,  his  mind  was  in  a  perfect  state  of  chaos.  Of 
the  chapter  which  he  had  striven  to  compass  the  previous 
night,  in  which  the  rights  of  persons  are  discussed  with 
the  usual  clearness  of  style,  but  the  usual  one-sidedness  of 
judgment  of  that  smooth  old  monarchist,  William  Hinkley 
scarcely  remembered  a  solitary  syllable.  He  had  read 
only  with  his  eyes.  His  mind  had  kept  no  pace  with  his 
proceedings,  and  though  he  strove  as  he  went  along  to  re 
call  the  heads  of  topics,  the  points  and  principles  of  what 


TRAILING   THE   FOX.  215 

he  had  been  reading,  his  efforts  at  reflection,  by  insensible 
but  sudden  transitions,  invariably  concluded  with  some 
image  of  strife  and  commotion,  in  which  he  was  one  of  the 
parties  and  Alfred  Stephens  another ;  the  beautiful,  proud 
face  of  Margaret  Cooper  being  always  unaccountably  pres 
ent,  and  seeming  to  countenance,  with  its  scornful  smiles, 
the  spirit  of  strife  which  operated  upon  the  combatants. 

This  mood  had  the  most  decided  effect  upon  his  appear 
ance  ;  and  the  good  old  man,  Calvert,  whose  attention  had 
been  already  drawn  to  the  condition  of  distress  and  suffer 
ing  which  he  manifested,  was  now  more  than  ever  struck 
with  the  seemingly  sudden  increase  of  this  expression  upon 
his  face.  It  was  Saturday — the  saturnalia  of  schoolboys  — 
and  a  day  of  rest  to  the  venerable  teacher.  He  was  seated 
before  his  door,  under  the  shadows  of  his  paternal  oak,  once 
more  forgetting  the  baffled  aims  and  profitless  toils  of  his 
own  youthful  ambition,  in  the  fascinating  pages  of  that  his 
torical  romancer  the  stout  Abbe  Yertot.  But  a  glance  at 
the  youth  soon  withdrew  his  mind  from  this  contemplation, 
and  the  sombre  pages  of  the  present  opened  upon  his  eye, 
and  the  doubtful  ones  of  the  future  became,  on  the  instant, 
those  which  he  most  desired  to  peruse. 

The  study  of  the  young  is  always  a  study  of  the  past  with 
the  old.  They  seem,  in  such  a  contemplation,  to  live  over 
the  records  of  memory.  They  feel  as  one  just  returning 
from  a  long  and  weary  journey,  who  encounters  another, 
freshly  starting  to  traverse  the  same  weary  but  inviting 
track.  Something  in  the  character  of  William  Hinkley, 
which  seemed  to  resemble  his  own,  made  this  feeling  yet 
more  active  in  the  mind  of  Mr.  Calvert ;  and  his  earnest 
desire  was  to  help  the  youth  forward  on  the  path  which,  he 
soon  perceived,  it  was  destined  that  the  other  should  finally 
take.  He  was  not  satisfied  with  the  indecision  of  charac 
ter  which  the  youth  displayed.  But  how  could  he  blame 
it  harshly  ?  It  was  in  this  very  respect  that  his  own  char 
acter  had  failed,  and  though  he  felt  that  all  his  counsels 


216  CHARLEMONT. 

were  to  be  addressed  to  this  point,  yet  he  knew  not  where, 
or  in  what  manner,  to  begin.  The  volume  of  Blackstone 
which  the  youth  carried  suggested  to  him  a  course,  how 
ever.  He  bade  the  young  man  bring  out  a  chair,  and  tak 
ing  the  book  in  his  hand,  he  proceeded  to  examine  him  upon 
parts  of  the  volume  which  he  professed  to  have  been 
reading. 

This  examination,  as  it  had  the  effect  of  compelling  the 
mind  of  the  student  to  contract  itself  to  a  single  subject  of 
thought,  necessarily  had  the  further  effect  of  clearing  it 
somewhat  from  the  chaos  of  clouds  which  had  been  brood 
ing  over  it,  obscuring  the  light,  and  defeating  the  warmth 
of  the  intellectual  sun  behind  them  ;  and  if  the  examination 
proved  the  youth  to  have  been  very  little  of  a  student,  or 
one  who  had  been  reading  with  a  vacant  mind,  it  also 
proved  that  the  original  powers  of  his  intellect  were  vigor 
ous  and  various — 'that  he  had  an  analytical  capacity  of 
considerable  compass  ;  was  bold  in  opinion,  ingenious  in 
solution,  and  with  a  tendency  to  metaphysical  speculation, 
which,  modified  by  the  active  wants  and  duties  of  a  large 
city-practice,  would  have  made  him  a  subtle  lawyer,  and  a 
very  logical  debater.  But  the  blush  kept  heightening  on 
the  youth's  cheeks  as  the  examination  proceeded.  He  had 
answered,  but  he  felt  all  the  while  how  much  his  answer 
had  sprung  from  his  own  conjectures  and  how  little  from 
his  authorities.  The  examination  convinced  him  that  the 
book  had  been  so  much  waste-paper  under  his  thumb.  When 
it  was  ended  the  old  man  closed  the  volume,  laid  it  on  the 
sward  beside  him,  and  looked,  with  a  mingled  expression 
of  interest  and  commiseration,  on  his  face.  William  Hink- 
ley  noted  this  expression,  and  spoke,  with  a  degree  of  mor 
tification  in  look  and  accent,  which  he  did  not  attempt 
to  hide :  — 

"  I  am  afraid,  sir,  you  will  make  nothing  of  me.  I  can 
make  nothing  of  myself.  I  am  almost  inclined  to  give  up 
in  despair.  I  will  be  nothing — I  can  be  nothing.  I  feared 


TRAILING   THE   FOX.  217 

as  much  from  the  beginning,  sir.     You  only  waste  your 
time  on  me." 

"  You  speak  too  fast,  William  —  you  let  your  blood  min 
gle  too  much  with  your  thoughts.  Let  me  ask  you  one 
question.  How  long  will  you  be  content  to  live  as  you 
do  now  —  seeking  nothing — performing  nothing — being 
nothing  ?" 

The  youth  was  silent. 

"  I,  you  see,  am  nothing,"  continued  the  old  man — "  nay, 
do  not  interrupt  me.  You  will  tell  me,  as  you  have  al 
ready  told  me,  that  I  am  much,  and  have  done  much,  here 
in  Charlemont.  But,  for  all  that  I  am,  and  have  done  here, 
I  need  not  have  gone  beyond  my  accidence.  My  time  has 
been  wasted ;  my  labors,  considered  as  means  to  ends,  were 
unnecessary ;  I  have  toiled  without  the  expected  profits  of 
toil ;  I  have  drawn  water  in  a  sieve.  It  is  not  pleasant  for 
me  to  recall  these  things,  much  less  to  speak  of  them ;  but 
it  is  for  your  good  that  I  told  you  my  story.  You  have,  as 
I  had,  certain  defects  of  character — not  the  same  exactly, 
but  of  the  same  family  complexion.  To  be  something,  you 
must  be  resolved.  You  must*devote  yourself,  heart  and 
mind,  with  all  your  soul  and  with  all  your  strength,  to  the 
business  you  have  undertaken.  Shut  your  windows  against 
the  sunshine,  your  ears  to  the  song  of  birds,  your  heart 
against  the  fascinations  of  beauty ;  and  if  you  never  think 
of  the  last  until  you  are  thirty,  you  will  be  then  a  better 
judge  of  beauty,  a  truer  lover,  a  better  husband,  a  more 
certain  candidate  for  happiness.  Let  me  assure  you  that, 
of  the  hundred  men  that  take  wives  before  they  are  thirty, 
there  is  scarcely  one  who,  in  his  secret  soul,  does  not  re 
pent  it — scarcely  one  who  does  not  look  back  with  yearn 
ing  to  the  days  when  he  was  free." 

There  was  a  pause.  The  young  man  became  very  much 
agitated.  He  rose  from  his  chair,  walked  apart  for  a  few 
moments,  and  then,  returning,  resumed  his  seat  by  the  old 
man. 

10 


218  CHARLEMONT. 

"  I  believe  you  are  right,  sir — nay,  I  know  you  are  ;  but 
I  can  not  be  at  once — I  can  not  promise — to  be  all  that 
you  wish.  If  Margaret  Cooper  would  consent,  I  would 
marry  her  to-morrow." 

The  old  man  shook  his  head,  but  remained  silent.  The 
young  one  proceeded : — 

"  One  thing  I  will  say,  however :  I  will  take  to  my  stud 
ies  after  this  week,  whatever  befalls,  with  the  hearty  reso 
lution  which  you  recommend.  I  will  try  to  shut  out  the 
sunshine  and  the  song.  I  will  endeavor  to  devote  soul  and 
strength,  and  heart  and  mind,  to  the  task  before  me.  I 
know  that  I  can  master  these  studies — I  think  I  can"  — 
he  continued,  more  modestly,  modifying  the  positive  asser 
tion — "  and  I  know  that  it  is  equally  my  interest  and  duty 
to  do  so.  I  thank  you  sir,  very  much  for  what  you  have 
told  me.  Believe  me,  it  has  not  fallen  upon  heedless  or 
disrespectful  ears." 

The  old  man  pressed  his  hand. 

"  I  know  that,  my  son,  and  I  rejoice  to  think  that,  having 
given  me  these  assurances,  you  will  strive  hard  to  make 
them  good." 

"I  will,  sir!"  replied  William,  taking  up  his  cap  to  de 
part. 

"  But  whither  are  you  going  now  ?" 

The  youth  blushed  as  he  replied  frankly : — 

"  To  the  widow  Cooper's.  I'm  going  to  see  Mar 
garet." 

"  Well,  well !"  said  the  old  man,  as  the  youth  disap 
peared,  "  if  it  must  be  done,  the  sooner  it's  over  the  bet 
ter.  But  there's  another  moth  to  the  flame.  Fortunately, 
he  will  be  singed  only  ;  but  she !  —  what  is  left  for  her — 
so  proud,  yet  so  confiding — so  confident  of  strength,  yet 
so  artless?  But  it  is  useless  to  look  beyond,  and  very 
dismal." 

And  the  speaker  once  more  took  up  Vertot,  and  was  soon 
lost  amid  the  glories  of  the  knights  of  St.  John.  His  stud- 


TRAILING   THE   FOX.  219 

ies  were  interrupted  by  the  sudden  and  boisterous  saluta 
tion  of  Ned  Hinkley  : — 

"  Well,  gran'pa,  hard  at  the  big  book  as  usual  ?  No  end 
to  the  fun  of  fighting,  eh  ?  I  confess,  if  ever  I  get  to  love 
reading,  it'll  be  in  some  such  book  as  that.  But  reading's 
not  natural  to  me,  though  you  made  me  do  enough  of  it 
while  you  had  me.  Bill  was  the  boy  for  the  books,  and  I 
for  the  hooks.  By-the-way,  talking  of  hooks,  how  did  those 
trout  eat  ?  Fine,  eh  ?  I  haven't  seen  you  since  the  day  of 
our  ducking." 

"  No,  Ned,  and  I've  been  looking  for  you.  Where  have 
you  been  ?" 

"  Working,  working  !  Everything's  been  going  wrong. 
Lines  snapped,  fiddle-strings  cracked,  hooks  missing,  gun 
rusty,  and  Bill  Hinkley  so  sulky,  that  his  frown  made  a 
shadow  on  the  wall  as  large  and  ugly  as  a  buffalo's.  But 
where  is  he  ?  I  came  to  find  him  here." 

While  he  was  speaking,  the  lively  youth  squatted  down, 
and  deliberately  took  his  seat  on  the  favorite  volume  which 
Mr.  Calvert  had  laid  upon  the  sward  at  his  approach. 

"  Take  the  chair,  Ned,"  said  the  old  man,  with  a  smaller 
degree  of  kindness  in  his  tone  than  was  habitual  with  him. 
"Take  the  chair.  Books  are  sacred  things — to  be  wor 
shipped  and  studied,  not  employed  as  footstools." 

"  Why,  what's  the  hurt,  gran'pa  ?"  demanded  the  young- 
man,  though  he  rose  and  did  as  he  was  bidden.  "  If  'twas 
a  fiddle,  now,  there  would  be  some  danger  of  a  crash,  but 
a  big  book  like  that  seems  naturally  made  to  sit  upon." 

The  old  man  answered  him  mildly : — 

"I  have  learned  to  venerate  books,  Ned,  and  can  no 
more  bear  to  see  them  abused  than  I  could  bear  to  be 
abused  myself.  It  seems  to  me  like  treating  their  writers 
and  their  subjects  with  scorn.  If  you  were  to  contemplate 
the  venerable  heads  of  the  old  knights  with  my  eyes  and 
feelings,  you  would  see  why  I  wish  to  guard  them  from 
everything  like  disrespect." 


220  CHARLEMONT. 

"Well,  I  beg  their  pardon — a  thousand  pardons!  I 
meant  no  offence,  gran'pa — and  can't  help  thinking  that 
it's  all  a  notion  of  yours,  your  reverencing  such  old  Turks 
and  Spaniards  that  have  been  dead  a  thousand  years.  They 
were  very  good  people,  no  doubt,  but  I'm  thinking  they've 
served  their  turn ;  and  I  see  no  more  harm  in  squatting 
upon  their  histories  than  in  walking  over  their  graves, 
which,  if  I  were  in  their  country  of  Jericho  —  that  was 
where  they  lived,  gran'pa,  wa'n't  it? — I  should  be  very 
apt  to  do  without  asking  leave,  I  tell  you." 

Ned  Hinkley  purposely  perverted  his  geography  and  his 
tory.  There  was  a  spice  of  mischief  in  his  composition, 
and  he  grinned  good-naturedly  as  he  watched  the  increas 
ing  gravity  upon  the  old  man's  face. 

"  Come,  come,  gran'pa,  don't  be  angry.  You  know  my 
fun  is  a  sort  of  fizz — there's  nothing  but  a  flash  —  nothing 
to  hurt — no  shotting.  But  where's  Bill  Hinkley,  gran'pa  ?" 

"  Gone  to  the  widow  Cooper's,  to  see  Margaret." 

"  Ah !  well,  I'm  glad  he's  made  a  beginning.  But  I'd 
much  rather  he'd  have  seen  the  other  first." 

"  What  other  do  you  mean  ?"  demanded  the  old  man ; 
but  the  speaker,  though  sufficiently  random  and  reckless  in 
what  he  said,  saw  the  impolicy  of  allowing  the  purpose  of 
his  cousin  in  regard  to  Stevens  to  be  understood.  He  con 
trived  to  throw  the  inquirer  off. 

"  Gran'pa,  do  you  know  there's  something  in  this  fellow 
Stevens  that  don't  altogether  please  me  ?  I'm  not  satisfied 
with  him." 

"  Ah,  indeed !  what  do  you  see  to  find  fault  with  ?" 

"  Well,  you  see,  he  comes  here  pretending  to  study. 
Now,  in  the  first  place,  why  should  he  come  here  to  study  ? 
why  didn't  he  stay  at  home  with  his  friends  and  parents  ?" 

"  Perhaps  he  had  neither.  Perhaps  he  had  no  home. 
You  might  as  well  ask  me  why  I  came  here,  and  settled 
down,  where  I  was  not  born — where  I  had  neither  friends 
nor  parents." 


TRAILING   THE   FOX.  221 

"  Oh,  no,  but  you  told  us  why,"  said  the  other.  "  You 
gave  us  a  reason  for  what  you  did." 

"  And  why  may  not  the  stranger  give  a  reason  too  ?" 

"  He  don't,  though." 

"  Perhaps  he  will  when  you  get  intimate  with  him.  I 
see  nothing  in  this  to  be  dissatisfied  with.  I  had  not 
thought  you  so  suspicious,  Ned  Hinkley — so  little  chari 
table." 

"  Charity  begins  at  home,  gran'pa.  But  there's  more 
in  this  matter.  This  man  comes  here  to  study  to  be  a  par 
son.  How  does  he  study  ?  Can  you  guess  ?" 

"  I  really  can  not." 

"  By  dressing  spruce  as  a  buck  —  curling  his  hair  back 
ward  over  his  ears  something  like  a  girl's,  and  going  out, 
morning,  noon,  and  night,  to  see  Margaret  Cooper." 

"  As  there  is  no  good  reason  to  suppose  that  a  student 
of  divinity  is  entirely  without  the  affections  of  humanity, 
I  still  see  nothing  inconsistent  with  his  profession  in  this 
conduct." 

"  But  how  can  he  study  ?" 

"  Ah  !  it  may  be  inconsistent  with  his  studies  though  not 
with  his  profession.  It  is  human  without  being  altogether 
proper.  You  see  that  your  cousin  neglects  his  studies  in 
the  same  manner.  I  presume  that  the  stranger  also  loves 
Miss  Cooper." 

"  But  he  has  no  such  right  as  Bill  Hinkley." 

"Why  not?" 

"  Why  not  ?  Why,  Bill  is  a  native  here,  has  been  loving 
her  for  the  last  year  or  more.  His  right  certainly  ought  to 
be  much  greater  than  that  of  a  man  whom  nobody  knows 
— who  may  be  the  man  in  the  moon  for  anything  we  know 
to  the  contrary — just  dropped  in  upon  us,  nobody  knows 
how,  to  do  nobody  knows  what." 

"  All  that  may  be  very  true,  Ned,  and  yet  his  right  to 
seek  Miss  Cooper  may  be  just  as  good  as  that  of  yourself 
or  mine.  You  forget  that  it  all  depends  upon  the  young 


222  CHARLEMONT. 

lady  herself  whether  either  of  them  is  to  have  a  right  at  all 
in  her  concerns." 

"  Well,  that's  a  subject  we  needn't  dispute  about,  gran'pa, 
when  there's  other  things.  Now,  isn't  it  strange  that  this 
stranger  should  ride  off  once  a  week  with  his  valise  on  his 
saddle,  just  as  if  he  was  starting  on  a  journey — should  be 
gone  half  a  day — then  come  back  with  his  nag  all  in  a 
foam,  and  after  that  you  should  see  him  in  some  new  cravat, 
or  waistcoat,  or  pantaloons,  just  as  if  he  had  gone  home 
and  got  a  change  ?" 

"And  does  he  do  that?"  inquired  Mr.  Calvert,  with 
some  show  of  curiosity. 

"  That  he  does,  and  he  always  takes  the  same  direction ; 
and  it  seems — so  Aunt  Sarah  herself  says,  though  she 
thinks  him  a  small  sort  of  divinity  on  earth — that  the  day 
before,  he's  busy  writing  letters,  and,  according  to  her  ac 
count,  pretty  long  letters  too.  Well,  nobody  sees  that  he 
ever  gets  any  letters  in  return.  He  never  asks  at  the  post- 
office,  so  Jacob  Zandts  himself  tells  me,  and  that's  strange 
enough,  too,  if  so  be  he  has  any  friends  or  relations  any 
where  else." 

Mr.  Calvert  listened  with  interest  to  these  and  other 
particulars  which  his  young  companion  had  gathered  re 
specting  the  habits  of  the  stranger ;  and  he  concurred  with 
his  informant  in  the  opinion  that  there  was  something  in 
his  proceedings  which  was  curious  and  perhaps  mysterious. 
Still,  he  did  not  think  it  advisable  to  encourage  the  prying 
and  suspicious  disposition  of  the  youth,  and  spoke  to  this 
effect  in  the  reply  which  finally  dismissed  the  subject.  Ned 
Hinkley  was  silenced  not  satisfied. 

"  There's  something  wrong  about  it,"  he  muttered  to 
himself  on  leaving  the  old  man,  "  and,  by  dickens  !  I'll  get 
to  the  bottom  of  it,  or  there's  no  taste  in  Salt-river.  The 
fellow's  a  rascal ;  I  feel  it  if  I  don't  know  it,  and  if  Bill 
Hinkley  don't  pay  him  off,  I  must.  One  or  t'other  must  do 
it,  that's  certain." 


TRAILING   THE   FOX.  223 

With  these  reflections,  which  seemed  to  him  to  be  no 
less  moral  than  social,  the  young  man  took  his  way  back 
to  the  village,  laboring  with  all  the  incoherence  of  unac 
customed  thought,  to  strike  out  some  process  by  which  to 
find  a  solution  for  those  mysteries  which  were  supposed 
to  characterize  the  conduct  of  the  stranger.  He  had  just 
turned  out  of  the  gorge  leading  from  Calvert's  house  into 
the  settlement,  when  he  encountered  the  person  to  whom 
his  meditations  were  given,  on  horseback,  and  going  at  a 
moderate  gallop  along  the  high-road  to  the  country.  Ste 
vens  bowed  to  him  and  drew  up  for  speech  as  he  drew 
nigh.  At  first  Ned  Hinkley  appeared  disposed  to  avoid 
him,  but  moved  by  a  sudden  notion,  he  stopped  and  suf 
fered  himself  to  speak  with  something  more  of  civility 
than  he  had  hitherto  shown  to  the  same  suspected  per 
sonage. 

"  Why,  you're  not  going  to  travel,  Parson  Stevens,"  said 
he — "  you're  not  going  to  leave  us,  are  you  ?" 

"  No,  sir — I  only  wish  to  give  myself  and  horse  a  stretch 
of  a  few  miles  for  the  sake  of  health.  Too  much  stable, 
they  say,  makes  a  saucy  nag." 

"  So  it  does,  and  I  may  say,  a  saucy  man  too.  But 
seeing  you  with  your  valise,  I  thought  you  were  off  for 
good." 

Stevens  said  something  about  his  being  so  accustomed  to 
ride  with  the  valise  that  he  carried  it  without  thinking. 

"  I  scarcely  knew  I  had  it  on !" 

"  That's  a  lie  all  round,"  said  Ned  Hinkley  to  himself 
as  the  other  rode  off.  "  Now,  if  I  was  mounted,  I'd  ride 
after  him  and  see  where  he  goes  and  what  he's  after. 
What's  to  hinder  ?  It's  but  a  step  to  the  stable,  and  but 
five  minutes  to  the  saddle.  Dang  it,  but  I'll  take  trail  this 
time  if  I  never  did  before." 


224  CHARLEMONT. 


CHAPTER   XIX. 

THE   DOOM. 

WITH  this  determination  our  suspicious  youth  made  rapid 
progress  in  getting  out  his  horse.  A  few  minutes  saw  him 
mounted,  and  putting  some  of  his  resolution  into  his  heels, 
he  sent  the  animal  forward  at  a  killing  start,  under  the 
keen  infliction  of  the  spur.  He  had  marked  with  his  eye 
the  general  course  which  Stevens  had  taken  up  the  hills, 
and  having  a  nag  of  equal  speed  and  bottom,  did  not  scru 
ple,  in  the  great  desire  which  he  felt,  to  ascertain  the  secret 
of  the  stranger,  to  make  him  display  the  qualities  of  both 
from  the  very  jump.  Stevens  had  been  riding  with  a  free 
rein,  but  in  consequence  of  these  energetic  measures  on  the 
part  of  Hinkley,  the  latter  soon  succeeded  in  overhauling 
him.  Still  he  had  already  gone  a  space  of  five  miles,  and 
this,  too,  in  one  direction.  He  looked  back  when  he  found 
himself  pursued,  and  his  countenance  very  clearly  expressed 
the  chagrin  which  he  felt.  This  he  strove,  but  with  very 
indifferent  success,  to  hide  from  the  keen  searching  eyes 
of  his  pursuer.  He  drew  up  to  wait  his  coming,  and  there 
was  a  dash  of  bitterness  in  his  tones  as  he  expressed  his 
"  gratification  at  finding  a  companion  where  he  least  ex 
pected  one." 

"  And  perhaps,  parson,  when  you  didn't  altogether  wish 
for  one,"  was  the  reply  of  the  reckless  fellow.  "  The 
truth  is,  I  know  I'm  not  the  sort  of  company  that  a  wise, 
sensible,  learned,  and  pious  young  gentleman  would  like  to 


THE  DOOM.  225 

keep,  but  the  truth  is  what  you  said  about  taking  a  stretch, 
man  and  beast,  seemed  to  me  to  be  just  about  as  wise  a 
thing  for  me  and  my  beast  also.  "We've  been  lying  by  so 
long  that  I  was  getting  a  little  stiff  in  my  joints,  and  Flip- 
flap,  my  nag  here,  was  getting  stiff  in  his  neck,  as  they 
say  was  the  case  with  the  Jews  in  old  times,  so  I  took  your 
idea  and  put  after  you,  thinking  that  you'd  agree  with  me 
that  bad  company's  far  better  than  none." 

There  was  a  mixture  of  simplicity  and  archness  in  the 
manner  of  the  speaker  that  put  Stevens  somewhat  at  fault ; 
but  he  saw  that  it  wouldn't  do  to  show  the  dudgeon  which 
he  really  felt ;  and  smoothing  his  quills  with  as  little  obvious 
effort  as  possible,  he  expressed  his  pleasure  at  the  coming 
of  his  companion.  While  doing  so,  he  wheeled  his  horse 
about,  and  signified  a  determination  to  return. 

What !  so  soon  ?  Why,  Lord  bless  you,  Flipflap  has 
scarcely  got  in  motion  yet.  If  such  a  stir  will  do  for  your 
nag  'twont  do  for  him." 

But  Stevens  doggedly  kept  his  horse's  head  along  the 
back  track,  though  the  animal  himself  exhibited  no  small 
restiffness  and  a  disposition  to  go  forward. 

"  Well,  really.  Parson  Stevens,  I  take  it  as  unkind  that 
you  turn  back  almost  the  very  moment  I  join  you.  I  seem 
to  have  scared  ride  out  of  you  if  not  out  of  your  creature ; 
but  do  as  you  please.  I'll  ride  on,  now  I'm  out.  I  don't 
want  to  force  myself  on  any  man  for  company." 

Stevens  disclaimed  any  feeling  of  this  sort,  but  declared 
he  had  ridden  quite  as  far  as  he  intended ;  and  while  he 
hesitated,  Hinkley  cut  the  matter  short  by  putting  spurs  to 
his  steed,  and  going  out  of  sight  in  a  moment. 

"  What  can  the  cur  mean  ?"  demanded  Stevens  of  him 
self,  the  moment  after  they  had  separated.  "  Can  he  have 
any  suspicions  ?  Ha !  I  must  be  watchful !  At  all  events, 
there's  no  going  forward  to-day.  I  must  put  it  off  for  next 
week;  and  meanwhile  have  all  my  eyes  about  me.  The 
fellow  seems  to  have  as  much  cunning  as  simplicity.  He 

10* 


226  CHARLEMONT. 

is  disposed  too,  to  be  insolent.  I  marked  his  manner  at  the 
lake,  as  well  as  that  of  his  bull-headed  cousin ;  but  that 
sousing  put  anger  out  of  me,  and  then,  again,  'twill  scarcely 
do  in  these  good  days  for  such  holy  men  as  myself  to  take 
up  cudgels.  I  must  bear  it  for  awhile  as  quietly  as  possible. 
It  will  not  be  long.  She  at  least  is  suspicionless.  Never 
did  creature  so  happily  delude  herself.  Yet  what  a  judg 
ment  in  some  things  !  What  keen  discrimination  !  What 
a  wild,  governless  imagination  !  She  would  be  a  prize, 
if  it  were  only  to  exhibit.  How  she  would  startle  the  dull, 
insipid,  tea-table  simperers  on  our  Helicon — nay,  with 
what  scorn  she  would  traverse  the  Helicon  itself.  The 
devil  is  that  she  would  have  a  will  in  spite  of  her  keeper. 
Such  an  animal  is  never  tamed.  There  could  be  no  pre 
scribing  to  her  the  time  when  she  should  roar — no  teaching 
her  to  fawn  and  fondle,  and  not  to  rend.  Soul,  and  eye, 
and  tongue,  would  speak  under  the  one  impulse,  in  the  ex 
citing  moment ;  and  when  Mrs.  Singalongohnay  was  squeak 
ing  out  her  eternal  requiems — her  new  versions  of  the 
Psalms  and  Scriptures — her  blank  verse  elogiacs — oh! 
how  blank! — beginning,  'Night  was  upon  the  hills,' — or, 
4  The  evening  veil  hung  low,'  or,  '  It  slept,' — or  after  some 
other  equally  threatening  form  and  fashion — I  can  fancy 
how  the  bright  eye  of  Margaret  would  gleam  with  scorn ; 
and  while  the  Follies  and  Dollies,  the  Patties  and  Jennies, 
the  Cory  dons  and  Jemmy  Jesamies,  all  round  were  throw 
ing  up  hands  and  eyes  in  a  sort  of  rapture,  how  she  would 
look,  with  what  equal  surprise  and  contempt,  doubting  her 
own  ears,  and  sickening  at  the  stuff  and  the  strange  syco 
phancy  which  induced  it.  And  should  good  old  Singalon 
gohnay,  with  a  natural  and  patronizing  visage,  approach, 
and  venture  to  talk  to  her  about  poetry,  with  that  assured 
smile  of  self-excellence  which  such  a  venerable  authority 
naturally  employs,  how  she  would  turn  upon  the  dame  and 
exclaim — *  What !  do  you  call  that  poetry?'  What  a  con 
cussion  would  follow.  How  the  simperers  would  sheer  off ; 


THE   DOOM.  227 

the  tea  that  night  might  as  well  be  made  of  aqua-fortis. 
Ha !  ha !  I  can  fancy  the  scene  before  me.  Nothing  could 
be  more  rich.  I  must  give  her  a  glimpse  of  such  a  scene. 
It  will  be  a  very  good  mode  of  operation.  Her  pride  and 
vanity  will  do  the  rest.  I  have  only  to  intimate  the  future 
sway — the  exclusive  sovereignty  which  would  follow — the 
overthrow  of  the  ancient  idols,  and  the  setting  up  of  a  true 
divinity  in  herself.  But  shall  it  be  so,  Master  Stevens? 
Verily,  that  will  be  seen  hereafter.  Enough,  if  the  delu 
sion  takes.  If  I  can  delude  the  woman  through  the  muse,  I 
am  satisfied.  The  muse  after  that  may  dispose  of  the 
woman  as  she  pleases." 

Such  was  a  portion  of  the  soliloquy  of  the  libertine  as  he 
rode  slowly  back  to  Charlemont.  His  further  musings  we 
need  not  pursue  at  present.  It  is  enough  to  say  that  they 
were  of  the  same  family  character.  He  returned  to  his 
room  as  soon  as  he  reached  his  lodging-house,  and  drawing 
from  his  pocket  a  bundle  of  letters  which  he  had  intended 
putting  in  the  postoffice  at  Ellisland,  he  carefully  locked 
them  up  in  his  portable  writing-desk  which  he  kept  at  the 
bottom  of  his  valise.  When  the  devout  Mrs.  Hinkley 
tapped  at  his  door  to  summon  him  to  dinner,  the  meri 
torious  young  man  was  to  be  seen,  seated  at  his  table, 
with  the  massive  Bible  of  the  family  conspicuously  open 
before  him.  Good  young  man!  never  did  he  invoke  a 
blessing  on  the  meats  with  more  holy  unction  than  on  that 
very  day. 

Meanwhile,  let  us  resume  our  progress  with  William 
Hinkley,  and  inquire  in  what  manner  his  wooing  sped 
with  the  woman  whom  he  so  unwisely  loved.  We  have 
seen  him  leaving  the  cottage  of  Mr.  Calvert  with  the  avowed 
purpose  of  seeking  a  final  answer.  A  purpose  from  which 
the  old  man  did  not  seek  to  dissuade  him,  though  he  read 
ily  conceived  its  fruitlessness.  It  was  with  no  composed 
spirit  that  the  young  rustic  felt  himself  approaching  the 
house  of  Mrs.  Cooper.  More  than  once  he  hesitated  and 


228  CHARLEMONT. 

even  halted.  But  a  feeling  of  shame,  and  the  efforts  of 
returning  manliness  re-resolved  him,  and  he  hurried  with 
an  unwonted  rapidity  of  movement  toward  the  dwelling,  as 
if  he  distrusted  his  own  power,  unless  he  did  so,  to  conclude 
the  labor  he  had  begun. 

He  gathered  some  courage  when  he  found  that  Margaret 
was  from  home'.  She  had  gone  on  her  usual  rambles.  Mrs. 
Cooper  pointed  out  the  course  which  she  had  taken,  and 
the  young  man  set  off  in  pursuit.  The  walks  of  the  maiden 
were  of  course  well  known  to  a  lover  so  devoted.  He  had 
sought  and  followed  her  a  thousand  times,  and  the  general 
direction  which  she  had  gone,  once  known,  his  progress 
was  as  direct  as  his  discoveries  were  certain.  The  heart 
of  Jthe  youth,  dilated  with  better  hopes  as  he  felt  himself 
traversing  the  old  familiar  paths.  It  seemed  to  him  that 
the  fates  could  scarcely  be  adverse  in  a  region  which  had 
always  been  so  friendly.  Often  had  he  escorted  her  along 
this  very  route,  when  their  spirits  better  harmonized — 
when,  more  of  the  girl  struggling  into  womanhood,  the  mind 
of  Margaret  Cooper,  ignorant  of  its  own  resources  and  un 
conscious  of  its  maturer  desires,  was  more  gentle,  and  could 
rejoice  in  that  companionship  for  which  she  now  betrayed 
so  little  desire.  The  sheltered  paths  and  well-known  trees, 
even  the  little  clumps  of  shrubbery  that  filled  up  the  inter 
vals,  were  too  pleasant  and  familiar  to  his  eye  not  to  seem 
favorable  to  his  progress,  and  with  a  hope  that  had  no  foun 
dation,  save  in  the  warm  and  descriptive  colors  of  a  young 
heart's  fancy,  William  Hinkley  pursued  the  route  which 
led  him  to  one  of  the  most  lovely  and  love-haunted  glades 
in  all  Kentucky. 

So  sweet  a  hush  never  hallowed  the  sabbath  rest  of  any 
forest.  The  very  murmur  of  a  drowsy  zephyr  among  the 
leaves  was  of  slumberous  tendency ;  and  silence  prevailed, 
with  the  least  possible  exertion  of  her  authority,  over  the 
long  narrow  dell  through  which  the  maiden  had  gone  wan 
dering.  At  the  foot  of  a  long  slope,  to  which  his  eye  was 


THE  DOOM.  229 

conducted  by  a  natural  and  lovely  vista,  the  youth  beheld 
the  object  of  his  search,  sitting,  motionless,  with  her  back 
toward  him.  The  reach  of  light  was  bounded  by  her  fig 
ure,  which  was  seated  on  the  decaying  trunk  of  a  fallen 
tree.  She  was  deeply  wrapped  in  thought,  for  she  did  not 
observe  his  approach,  and  when  his  voice  reached  her  ears, 
and  she  started  and  looked  round,  her  eyes  were  full  of 
tears.  These  she  hastily  brushed  away,  and  met  the  young 
man  with  a  degree  of  composure  which  well  might  have 
put  the  blush  upon  his  cheek,  for  the  want  of  it. 

"In  tears! — weeping,  Margaret?"  was  the  first  address 
of  the  lover  who  necessarily  felt  shocked  at  what  he  saw. 

"  They  were  secret  tears,  sir — not  meant  for  other  eyes," 
was  the  reproachful  reply. 

"  Ah,  Margaret !  but  why  should  you  have  secret  tears, 
when  you  might  have  sympathy — why  should  you  have 
tears  at  all  ?  You  have  no  sorrows." 

"  Sympathy !"  was  the  exclamation  of  the  maiden,  while 
a  scornful  smile  gleamed  from  her  eyes ;  "  whose  sympa 
thy,  I  pray  ?" 

The  young  man  hesitated  to  answer.  The  expression  of 
her  eye  discouraged  him.  He  dreaded  lest,  in  offering  his 
sympathies,  he  should  extort  from  her  lips  a  more  direct 
intimation  of  that  scorn  which  he  feared.  He  chose  a  mid 
dle  course. 

"  But  that  you  should  have  sorrows,  Margaret,  seems 
very  strange  to  me.  You  are  young  and  hearty ;  endowed 
beyond  most  of  your  sex,  and  with  a  beauty  which  can  not 
be  too  much  admired.  Your  mother  is  hearty  and  happy, 
and  for  years  you  have  had  no  loss  of  relations  to  deplore. 
I  see  not  why  you  should  have  sorrows." 

"  It  is  very  likely,  "William  Hinkley,  that  you  do  not  see. 
The  ordinary  sorrows  of  mankind  arise  from  the  loss  of 
wives  and  cattle,  children  and  property.  There  are  sor 
rows  of  another  kind ;  sorrows  of  the  soul ;  the  conscious 
ness  of  denial;  of  strife — strife  to  be  continued — strife 


230  CHARLEMONT. 

without  victory — baffled  hopes — defeated  aims  and  ener 
gies.  These  are  sorrows  which  are  not  often  computed  in 
the  general  account.  It  is  highly  probable  that  none  of 
them  afflict  you.  You  have  your  parents,  and  very  good 
people  they  are.  You  yourself  are  no  doubt  a  very  good 
young  man — so  everybody  says — and  you  have  health  and 
strength.  Besides,  you  have  property,  much  more,  I  am 
told,  than  falls  to  the  lot  ordinarily  of  young  people  in  this 
country.  These  are  reasons  why  you  should  not  feel  any 
sorrow ;  but  were  all  these  mine  and  a  great  deal  more, 
I'm  afraid  it  would  not  make  me  any  more  contented. 
You,  perhaps,  will  not  understand  this,  William  Hinkley, 
but  I  assure  you  that  such,  nevertheless  is  my  perfect  con 
viction." 

"  Yes,  I  can,  and  do  understand  it,  Margaret,"  said  the 
young  man,  with  flushed  cheek  and  a  very  tremulous  voice, 
as  he  listened  to  language  which,  though  not  intended  to 
be  contemptuous,  was  yet  distinctly  colored  by  that  scorn 
ful  estimate  which  the  maiden  had  long  since  made  of  the 
young  man's  abilities.  In  this  respect  she  had  done  injus 
tice  to  his  mind,  which  had  been  kept  in  subjection  and  de 
prived  of  its  ordinary  strength  and  courage,  by  the  enfee 
bling  fondness  of  his  heart. 

"  Yes,  Margaret,"  he  continued,  "  I  can  and  do  under 
stand  it,  and  I  too  have  my  sorrows  of  this  very  sort.  Do 
not  smile,  Margaret,  but  hear  me  patiently,  and  believe, 
that,  whatever  may  be  the  error  which  I  commit,  I  have  no 
purpose  to  offend  you  in  what  I  say  or  do.  Perhaps,  we 
are  both  of  us  quite  too  young  to  speak  of  the  sorrows  which 
arise  from  defeated  hopes,  or  baffled  energies,  or  denial  of 
our  rights  and  claims.  The  yearnings  and  apprehensions 
which  we  are  apt  to  feel  of  this  sort  are  not  to  be  count 
ed  as  sorrows,  or  confounded  with  them.  I  had  a  conver 
sation  on  this  very  subject  only  a,few  days  ago,  with  old 
Mr.  Calvert,  and  this  was  his  very  opinion." 

The  frankness  with  which  William  Hinkley  declared  the 


THE   DOOM.  231 

source  of  his  opinions,  though  creditable  to  his  sincerity, 
was  scarcely  politic — it  served  to  confirm  Margaret  Coop 
er  in  the  humble  estimate  which  she  had  formed  of  the 
speaker. 

"  Mr.  Calvert,"  said  she,  "  is  a  very  sensible  old  man, 
but  neither  he  nor  you  can  enter  into  the  heart  of  another 
and  say  what  shall,  or  what  shall  not  be  its  source  of 
trouble.  It  is  enough,  William  Hinkley,  that  I  have  my 
cares  —  at  least  I  fancy  that  I  have  them  —  and  though  I 
am  very  grateful  for  your  sympathies,  I  do  not  know  that 
they  can  do  me  any  good,  and,  though  I  thank  you,  I  must 
yet  decline  them." 

"  Oh,  do  not  say  so,  Margaret  —  dear  Margaret  —  it  is 
to  proffer  them  that  I  seek  you  now.  You  know  how  long 
I  have  sought  you,  and  loved  you :  you  can  not  know  how 
dear  you  arc  to  my  eyes,  how  necessary  to  my  happiness ! 
Do  not  repulse  me  —  do  not  speak  quickly.  What  I  am, 
and  what  I  have,  is  yours.  We  have  grown  up  together ; 
I  have  known  no  other  hope,  no  other  love,  but  that  for 
you.  Look  not  upon  me  with  that  scornful  glance  —  hear 
me  —  I  implore  you  —  on  my  knee,  dear  Margaret.  I  im 
plore  you  as  for  life  —  for  something  more  dear  than  life  — 
that  which  will  make  life  precious  —  which  may  make  it 
valuable.  Be  mine,  dear  Margaret " 

"  Rise,  William  Hinkley,  and  do  not  forget  yourself!" 
was  the  stern,  almost  deliberate  answer  of  the  maiden. 

"  Do  not,  I  pray  you,  do  not  speak  in  those  tones,  dear 
Margaret  —  do  not  look  on  me  with  those  eyes.  Remem 
ber  before  you  speak,  that  the  dearest  -hope  of  a  devoted 
heart  hangs  upon  your  lips." 

"  And  what  have  you  seen  in  me,  or  what  does  your  vain 
conceit  behold  in  yourself,  William  Hinkley,  to  make  you 
entertain  a  hope  ?" 

"  The  meanest  creature  has  it." 

"  Aye,  but  only  of  creatures  like  itself." 

"  Margaret!"  exclaimed  the  lover  starting  to  his  feet. 


232'  CHARLEMONT. 

"  Ay,  sir,  I  say  it.  If  the  meanest  creature  has  its  hope, 
it  relates  to  a  creature  like  itself —  endowed  with  its  own 
nature  and  fed  with  like  sympathies.  But  you  —  what 
should  make  you  hope  of  me  ?  Have  I  not  long  avoided 
you,  discouraged  you  ?  I  would  have  spared  you  the  pain 
of  this  moment  by  escaping  it  myself.  You  haunt  my  steps 
—  you  pursue  me  —  you  annoy  me  with  attentions  which  I 
dare  not  receive  for  fear  of  encouraging  you,  and  in  spite 
of  all  this,  which  everybody  in  the  village  must  have  seen 
but  yourself,  you  still  press  yourself  upon  me." 

"  Margaret  Cooper,  be  not  so  proud  !" 

"  I  am  what  I  am  !  I  know  that  I  am  proud  — vain,  per 
haps,  and  having  little  to  justify  either  pride  or  vanity  ;  but 
to  you,  William  Hinkley,  as  an  act  of  justice,  I  must  speak 
what  I  feel  —  what  is  the  truth.  I  am  sorry,  from  my  very 
soul,  that  you  love  me,  for  I  can  have  no  feeling  for  you  in 
return.  I  do  not  dislike  you,  but  you  have  so  oppressed 
me  that  I  would  prefer  not  to  see  you.  We  have  no  feel 
ings  in  common.  You  can  give  me  no  sympathies.  My 
soul,  my  heart,  my  hope  —  every  desire  of  my  mind,  every 
impulse  of  my  heart,  leads  me  away  from  you  —  from  all 
that  you  can  give  —  from  all  that  you  can  relish.  To  you 
it  would  suffice,  if  all  your  life  could  be  spent  here  in  Char- 
lemont  —  to  me  it  would  be  death  to  think  that  any  such 
doom  hung  over  me.  From  this  one  sentiment  judge  of  the 
rest,  and  know,  for  go9d  and  all,  that  I  can  never  feel  for 
you  other  than  I  feel  now.  I  can  not  love  you,  nor  can  the 
knowledge  that  you  love  me,  give  me  any  but  a  feeling  of 
pain  and  mortification." 

William  Hinkley  had  risen  to  his  feet.  His  form  had 
put  on  an  unusual  erectness.  His  eye  had  gradually  become 
composed ;  and  now  it  wore  an  expression  of  firmness  al 
most  amounting  to  defiance.  He  heard  her  with  only  an 
occasional  quiver  of  the  muscles  about  his  mouth.  The 
flush  of  shame  and  pride  was  still  red  upon  his  cheek. 


THE  DOOM.  233 

When  she  had  finished,  he  spoke  to  her  in  tones  of  more 
dignity  than  had  hitherto  marked  his  speech. 

"  Margaret  Cooper,  you  have  at  least  chosen  the  plainest 
language  to  declare  a  cruel  truth." 

The  cheek  of  the  girl  became  suddenly  flushed. 

"Do  you  suppose,"  she  said,  "that  I  found  pleasure  in 
giving  you  pain  ?  No  !  William  Hinkley,  I  am  sorry  for 
you!  But  this  truth,  which  you  call  cruel,  was  shown  to 
you  repeatedly  before.  Any  man  but  yourself  would  have 
seen  it,  and  saved  me  the  pain  of  its  frequent  repetition. 
You  alone  refused  to  understand,  until  it  was  rendered 
cruel.  It  was  only  by  the  plainest  language  that  you  could 
be  made  to  believe  a  truth  that  you  either  would  not  or 
could  not  otherwise  be  persuaded  to  hear.  If  cold  looks, 
reserved  answers,  and  a  determined  rejection  of  all  famili 
arity  could  have  availed,  you  would  never  have  heard  from 
my  lips  a  solitary  word  which  could  have  brought  you  mor 
tification.  You  would  have  seen  my  feelings  in  my  conduct, 
and  would  have  spared  your  own  that  pain,  which  I  reli 
giously  strove  to  save  them." 

"  I  have,  indeed,  been  blind  and  deaf,"  said  the  young 
man ;  "  but  you  have  opened  my  eyes  and  ears,  Margaret, 
so  that  I  am  fully  cured  of  these  infirmities.  If  your  pur 
pose,  in  this  plain  mode  of  speech,  be  such  as  you  have  de 
clared  it,  then  I  must  thank  you ;  though  it  is  very  much 
as  one  would  thank  the  dagger  that  puts  him  out  of  his  pain 
by  putting  him  out  of  life." 

There  was  so  much  of  subdued  feeling  in  this  address  — 
the  more  intense  in  its  effect,  from  the  obvious  restraint  put 
upon  it,  that  the  heart  of  the  maiden  was  touched.  The 
dignified  bearing  of  the  young  man,  also  —  so  different  from 
that  which  marked  his  deportment  hitherto  —  was  not  with 
out  its  effect. 

"  I  assure  you,  William  Hinkley,  that  such  alone  was 
my  motive  for  what  else  would  seem  a  most  wanton  harsh 
ness.  I  would  not  be  harsh  to  you  or  to  anybody ;  and 


234"  CHARLEMONT. 

with  my  firm  rejection  of  your  proffer,  I  give  you  my  regrets 
that  you  ever  made  it.  It  gives  me  no  pleasure  that  you 
should  make  it.  If  I  am  vain,  my  vanity  is  not  flattered  or 
quickened  by  a  tribute  which  I  can  not  accept;  and  if  you 
never  had  my  sympathy  before,  William  Hinkley,  I  freely 
give  it  now.  Once  more  I  tell  you,  I  am  sorry,  from  the 
bottom  of  my  heart,  that  you  ever  felt  for  me  a  passion 
which  I  can  not  requite,  and  that  you  did  not  stifle  it  from 
the  beginning ;  as,  Heaven  knows,  my  bearing  toward  you, 
for  a  whole  year,  seemed  to  me  to  convey  sufficient  warning." 

"  It  should  have  done  so !  I  can  now  very  easily  under 
stand  it>  Margaret.  Indeed,  Mr.  Calvert  and  others  told 
me  the  same  thing.  But  as  I  have  said,  I  was  blind  and 
deaf.  Once  more,  I  thank  you,  Margaret  —  it  is  a  bitter 
medicine  which  you  have  given  me,  but  I  trust  a  wholesome 
one." 

He  caught  her  hand  and  pressed  it  in  his  own.  She  did 
not  resist  or  withdraw  it,  and,  after  the  retention  of  an  in 
stant  only,  he  released  it,  and  was  about  to  turn  away.  A 
big  tear  was  gathering  in  his  eye,  and  he  strove  to  conceal 
it.  Margaret  averted  her  head,  and  was  about  to  move 
forward  in  an  opposite  direction,  when  the  voice  of  the 
young  man  arrested  her : — 

"  Stay,  but  a  few  moments  more,  Margaret.  Perhaps  we 
shall  never  meet  again  —  certainly  not  in  a  conference  like 
this.  I  may  have  no  other  opportunity  to  say  that  which, 
in  justice  to  you,  should  be  spoken.  Will  you  listen  to  me, 
patiently  ?" 

"  Speak  boldly,  William  Hinkley.  It  was  the  subject  of 
which  you  spoke  heretofore  which  I  shrunk  from  rather  than 
the  speaker." 

"  I  know  not,"  said  he,  "  whether  the  subject  of  which  I 
propose  to  speak  now  will  be  any  more  agreeable  than  that 
of  which  we  have  spoken.  At  all  events,  my  purpose  is 
your  good,  and  I  shall  speak  unreservedly.  You  have  re 
fused  the  prayer  of  one  heart,  Margaret,  which,  if  unworthy 


THE   DOOM.  235 

of  yours,  was  yet  honestly  and  fervently  devoted  to  it. 
Let  me  warn  you  to  look  well  when  you  do  choose,  lest  you 
fall  into  the  snares  of  one,  who  with  more  talent  may  be 
less  devoted,  and  with  more  claims  to  admiration,  may  be 
far  less  honest  in  his  purpose." 

"  What  mean  you,  sir  ?"  she  demanded  hurriedly,  with 
an  increasing  glow  upon  her  face. 

"  This  stranger  —  this  man,  Stevens  !" 

"  What  of  him  ?  What  do  you  know  of  the  stranger  that 
you  should  give  me  this  warning  ?" 

"  What  does  anybody  know  of  him  ?  Whence  does  he 
come  —  whither  would  he  go  ?  What  brings  him  here  to 
this  lonely  village  ? — " 

A  proud  smile  which  curled  the  lips  of  Margaret  Cooper 
arrested  the  speech  of  the  youth.  It  seemed  to  say,  very 
distinctly,  that  she,  at  least,  could  very  well  conjecture  what 
brought  the  stranger  so  far  from  the  travelled  haunts. 

"  Ha !  do  you  then  know,  Margaret  ?" 

"  And  if  I  did  not,  William  Hinkley,  these  base  insinua 
tions  against  the  man,  of  whom,  knowing  nothing,  you  would 
still  convey  the  worst  imputations,  would  never  move  my 
mind  a  hair's  breadth  from  its  proper  balance.  Go,  sir  — 
you  have  your  answer.  I  need  not  your  counsel.  I  should 
be  sorry  to  receive  it  from  such  a  source.  Failing  in  your 
own  attempt,  you  would  seek  to  fill  my  mind  with  calum 
nious  impressions  in  order  to  prejudice  the  prospects  of  an 
other.  For  shame !  for  shame,  William  Hinkley.  I  had 
not  thought  this  of  you.  But  go !  go !  go,  at  once,  lest  I 
learn  to  loathe  as  well  as  despise  you.  I  thought  you  sim 
ple  and  foolish,  but  honorable  and  generous.  I  was  mis 
taken  even  in  this.  Go,  sir,  your  slanderous  insinuations 
have  no  effect  upon  me,  and  as  for  Alfred  Stevens,  you  are 
as  far  below  him  in  nobleness  and  honest  purpose,  as  you 
are  in  every  quality  of  taste  and  intellect." 

Her  face  was  the  very  breathing  image  of  idealized  scorn 
and  beauty  as  she  uttered  these  stinging  words.  Her  nos- 


236  CHARLEMONT. 

trils  were  dilated,  her  eyes  flashing  fire,  her  lips  slightly 
protruded  and  parted,  her  hand  waving  him  off.  The 
young  man  gazed  upon  her  with  wild  looks  equally  expres 
sive  of  anger  and  agony.  His  form  fairly  writhed  beneath 
his  emotions  ;  but  he  found  strength  enough  gaspingly  to 
exclaim :  — 

"  And  even  this  I  forgive  you,  Margaret." 
"  Go  !  go  !"   she  answered ;   "  you  know  not  what  you 
say,  or  what  you  are.     Go !  go  !" 

And  turning  away,  she  moved  slowly  up  the  long  avenue 
before  her,  till,  by  a  sudden  turn  of  the  path  she  was  hid 
den  from  the  sight.  Then,  when  his  eye  could  no  longer 
follow  her  form,  the  agony  of  his  soul  burst  forth  in  a  sin 
gle  groan,  and  staggering,  he  fell  forward  upon  the  sward, 
hopeless,  reckless,  in  a  wretched  condition  of  self-abandon 
ment  and  despair. 


BLOWS  —  A   CRISIS.  237 


CHAPTER  XX. 

BLOWS  —  A    CRISIS. 

BUT  this  mood  lasted  not  long.  Youth,  pride,  anger, 
asserted  themselves  before  the  lapse  of  many  minutes. 
Darker  feelings  got  possession  of  his  mind.  He  rose  to  his 
feet.  If  love  was  baffled,  was  there  not  revenge  ?  Then 
came  the  recollection  of  his  cousin's  counsel.  Should  this 
artful  stranger  triumph  in  everything  ?  Margaret  Cooper 
had  scarcely  disguised  the  interest  which  she  felt  in  him. 
Nay,  had  not  that  exulting  glance  of  the  eye  declared  that 
she,  at  least,  knew  what  was  the  purpose  of  Stevens  in 
seeking  the  secluded  village  ?  His  own  wrongs  were  also 
present  to  his  mind.  This  usurper  had  possessed  himself 
of  the  affections  of  all  he  loved  —  of  all  of  whose  love  he 
had  till  then  felt  himself  secure  —  all  but  the  good  old 
schoolmaster,  and  the  sturdy  schoolmate  and  cousin.  And 
how  soon  might  he  deprive  him  even  of  these  ?  That  was 
a  new  fear !  So  rapid  had  been  the  stranger's  progress  — 
so  adroitly  had  he  insinuated  himself  into  this  Eden  of  the 
wilderness — bringing  discontent  and  suffering  in  his  train 
—  that  the  now  thoroughly-miserable  youth  began  to  fancy 
that  nothing  could  be  safe  from  his  influence.  In  a  short 
time  his  garden  would  all  be  overrun,  and  his  loveliest 
plants  would  wither. 

Was  there  no  remedy  for  this  ?  There  was  !  and  trav 
ersing  the  solemn  recesses  of  that  wood,  he  meditated  the 
various  modes  by  which  the  redress  of  wrong,  and  slight, 


238  CHAELEMONT. 

and  indignity,  were  to  be  sought.  He  brooded  over  images 
of  strife,  and  dark  and  savage  ideas  of  power  rioting  over 
its  victim,  with  entirely  new  feelings — feelings  new  at 
least  to  him.  We  have  not  succeeded  in  doing  him  justice, 
nor  in  our  own  design,  if  we  have  failed  to  show  that  he 
was  naturally  gentle  of  heart,  rigidly  conscientious,  a  lover 
of  justice  for  its  own  sake,  and  solicitously  sensitive  on  the 
subject  of  another's  feelings.  But  the  sense  of  suffering 
will  blind  the  best  judgment,  and  the  feeling  of  injury  will 
arouse  and  irritate  the  gentlest  nature.  Besides,  William 
Hinkley,  though  meek  and  conscientious,  had  not  passed 
through  his  youth,  in  the  beautiful  but  wild  border  country 
in  which  he  lived,  without  having  been  informed,  and  some 
what  influenced,  by  those  characteristic  ideas  of  the  modes 
and  manner  in  which  personal  wrongs  were  to  be  re 
dressed. 

Perhaps,  had  his  cousin  said  nothing  to  him  on  this  sub 
ject,  his  feelings  would  have  had  very  much  the  same  ten 
dency  and  general  direction  which  they  were  taking  now. 
A  dark  and  somewhat  pleasurable  anxiety  to  be  in  conflict 
with  his  rival  —  a  deadly  conflict  —  a  close,  hard  death- 
struggle —  was  now  the  predominant  feeling  in  his  mind ;  — 
but  the  feeling  was  not  altogether  a  pleasurable  one.  It 
had  its  pains  and  humiliations,  also.  Not  that  he  had  any 
fears — any  dread  of  the  issue.  Of  the  issue  he  never 
thought.  But  it  disturbed  the  long  and  peaceful  order  of 
his  life.  It  conflicted  with  the  subdued  tastes  of  the  stu 
dent.  It  was  at  war  with  that  gentle  calm  of  atmosphere, 
which  letters  diffuse  around  the  bower  of  the  muse. 

In  the  conflict  of  his  thoughts  and  feelings,  the  judgment 
of  the  youth  was  impaired.  He  forgot  his  prudence.  In 
fact,  he  knew  not  what  he  did.  He  entered  the  dwelling 
of  his  father,  and  passed  into  the  dining-room,  at  that  solemn 
moment  when  the  grace  before  meat  was  yet  in  course  of 
utterance  by  our  worthy  Brother  Stevens.  Hitherto,  old 
Mr.  Hinkley  had  religiously  exacted  that,  whenever  any  df 


BLOWS  —  A   CRISIS.  239 

the  household  failed  to  be  present  in  season,  this  ceremony 
should  never  be  disturbed.  They  were  required,  hat  in 
hand,  to  remain  at  the  entrance,  until  the  benediction  had 
been  implored  ;  and,  only  after  the  audible  utterance  of  the 
word  "  Amen,"  to  approach  the  cloth. 

We  have  shown  little  of  old  Hinkley.  It  has  not  been 
necessary.  The  reader  has  seen  enough,  however,  to  un 
derstand  that,  in  religious  matters  —  at  least  in  the  forms 
and  externals  of  religion — he  was  a  rigid  disciplinarian. 
Upon  grace  before  and  after  meat  he  always  insisted.  His 
own  prayers  of  this  sort  might  have  been  unctuous,  but  they 
were  never  short ;  and  the  meats  were  very  apt  to  grow 
cold,  while  the  impatience  of  his  hearers  grew  warm,  before 
he  finished.  But  through  respect  to  the  profession,  he 
waived  his  own  peculiar  privilege  in  behalf  of  Brother 
Stevens  ;  and  this  holy  brother  was  in  the  middle  of  his 
entreaty,  when  William  Hinkley  appeared  at  the  door.  He 
paused  for  an  instant  without  taking  off  his  hat.  Perhaps 
had  his  father  been  engaged  in  his  office,  William  would 
have  forborne,  as  usual,  however  long  the  grace,  and  have 
patiently  waited  without,  hat  off,  until  it  had  reached  the 
legitimate  conclusion.  But  he  had  no  such  veneration  for 
Stevens ;  and  without  scruple  he  dashed,  rather  hastily, 
into  the  apartment,  and  flinging  his  hat  upon  a  chair,  strode 
at  once  to  the  table. 

The  old  man  did  not  once  raise  his  eyes  until  the  prayer 
was  over.  He  would  not  have  done  so  had  the  house  been 
on  fire.  But  at  the  close,  he  looked  up  at  his  son  with  a 
brow  of  thunder.  The  cloud  was  of  serious  and  very  un 
usual  blackness.  He  had  for  some  time  been  dissatisfied 
with  his  son.  He  had  seen  that  the  youth  entertained  some 
aversion  for  his  guest.  Besides,  he  had  learned  from  his 
worthy  consort,  that,  in  an  endeavor  of  Brother  Stevens  to 
bestow  good  counsel  upon  the  youth,  he  had  been  repulsed 
with  as  little  respect  as  ceremony.  There  was  one  thing 
that  the  stern  old  man  had  not  seen,  and  could  not  see ; 


240  CHARLEMONT. 

and  that  was  the  altered  appearance  of  the  lad.  As  lie 
knew  of  no  reason  why  he  should  be  unhappy,  so  he  failed 
to  perceive  in  his  appearance  any  of  the  signs  of  unhappi- 
ness.  He  saw  nothing  but  the  violation  of  his  laws,  and 
that  sort  of  self-esteem  which  produces  fanaticism,  is  always 
the  most  rigid  in  the  enforcement  of  its  own  ordinances. 
Already  he  regarded  the  youth  as  in  a  state  of  rebellion, 
and  for  such  an  offence  his  feeling  was  very  much  that  of 
the  ancient  puritan.  No  one  more  insists  upon  duty,  than 
lie  who  has  attained  authority  by  flinging  off  the  fetters  of 
obedience.  Your  toughest  sinner  usually  makes  the  sourest 
saint. 

"  And  is  this  the  way,  William  Hinkley,  that  you  show 
respect  to  God  ?  Do  you  despise  the  blessing  which 
Brother  Stevens  asks  upon  the  food  which  sustains  us  ?" 

"  I  presume,  sir,  that  God  has  already  blessed  all  the 
food  which  he  bestows  upon  man.  I  do  not  think  that  any 
prayer  of  Brother  Stevens  can  render  it  more  blessed." 

"  Ha !  you  do  not,  do  you  ?  Please  to  rise  from  this 
table." 

"  Nay,  sir — "  began  Stevens. 

"  Rise,  sir,"  continued  the  old  man,  laying  down  knife 
and  fork,  and  confronting  the  offender  with  that  dogged 
look  of  determination  which  in  a  coarse  nature  is  the  sure 
sign  of  moral  inflexibility. 

"  Forgive  him,  sir,  this  time,"  said  Stevens  ;  "  I  entreat 
you  to  forgive  him.  The  young  man  knows  not  what  he 
does." 

"  I  will  make  him  know,"  continued  the  other. 

"  Plead  not  for  me,  sir,"  said  William  Hinkley,  glaring 
upon  Stevens  with  something  of  that  expression  which  in 
western  parlance  is  called  wolfish,  "  I.  scorn  and  spurn 
your  interference." 

"  William,  William,  my  dear  son,  do  not  speak  so — -do 
not  make  your  father  angry." 

"  Will  you  leave  the  table,  sir,  or  not  ?"  demanded  the 


BLOWS  —  A    CRISIS.  241 

father,  his  words  being  spoken  very  slowly,  through  his 
teeth,  and  with  the  effort  of  one  who  seeks  to  conceal  the 
growing  agitation.  The  eyes  of  the  mother  fell  upon  the 
youth  full  of  tears  and  entreaty.  His  fine  countenance  be 
trayed  the  conflicting  emotions  of  his  soul.  There  was 
grief,  and  anger,  despair  and  defiance ;  the  consciousness 
of  being  wrong,  and  the  more  painful  consciousness  of  suf 
fering  wrong.  He  half  started  from  his  chair,  again  re 
sumed  it,  and  gazing  upon  Stevens  with  the  hate  and  agony 
which  he  felt,  seemed  to  be  entirely  forgetful  of  the  words 
and  presence  of  the  father.  The  old  man  deliberately  rose 
from  the  table  and  left  the  room.  The  another  now  started 
up  in  an  agony  of  fear. 

"  Run,  my  son — leave  the  room  before  your  father  comes 
back.  Speak  to  him,  Brother  Stevens,  and  tell  him  of  tho 
danger." 

"  Do  not  call  upon  him,  mother,  if  you  would  not  have 
me  defy  you  also.  If  your  words  will  not  avail  with  me, 
be  sure  that  his  can  not." 

"  What  mean  you,  my  son  ?  You  surely  have  no  cause 
to  be  angry  with  Brother  Stevens." 

"No  cause!  no  cause!  —  but  it  matters  not!  Brother 
Stevens  knows  that  I  have  cause.  He  has  heard  my  defi 
ance — he  knows  my  scorn  and  hate,  and  he  shall  feel  them  !" 

"  William,  my  son,  how — " 

The  steps  of  the  father,  approaching  through  the  passage 
way,  diverted  her  mind  to  a  new  terror.  She  knew  the 
vindictive  and  harsh  nature  of  the  old  man ;  and  apprehen 
sions  for  her  son  superseded  the  feeling  of  anger  which  his 
language  had  provoked. 

"  Oh,  my  son,  be  submissive,  or  fly.  Jump  out  of  the 
window,  and  leave  Brother  Stevens  and  me  to  pacify  him. 
We  will  do  all  we  can." 

The  unlucky  allusion  to  Brother  Stevens  only  increased 
the  young  man's  obstinacy. 

"  I  ask  you  not,  mother.  I  wish  you  to  do  nothing,  and 

11 


242  CHARLEMONT. 

to  say  nothing.  Here  I  will  remain.  I  will  not  fly.  It 
will  be  for  my  father  and  mother  to  say  whether  they  will 
expel  their  only  son  from  their  home,  to  make  room  for  a 
stranger." 

"  It  shall  not  be  said  that  I  have  been  the  cause  of  this," 
said  Stevens,  rising  with  dignity  from  his  chair ;  "  I  will 
leave  your  house,  Mrs.  Hinkley,  only  regretting  that  I 
should  be  the  innocent  cause  of  any  misunderstanding  or 
discontent  among  its  members.  I  know  not  exactly  what 
can  be  the  meaning  of  your  son's  conduct.  I  have  never 
offended  him ;  but,  as  my  presence  does  offend  him,  1  will 
withdraw  myself — " 

"  You  shall  not !"  exclaimed  old  Hinkley,  who  re-entered 
the  room  at  this  moment,  and  had  heard  the  last  words  of 
the  speaker.  "  You  shall  not  leave  the  house.  Had  I  fifty 
sons,  and  they  were  all  to  behave  in  the  manner  of  this 
viper,  they  should  all  leave  it  before  you  should  stir  from 
the  threshold." 

The  old  man  brought  with  him  a  cowskin ;  and  the  ma 
ternal  apprehensions  of  his  wife,  who  knew  his  severe  and 
determined  disposition,  were  now  awakened  to  such  a  de 
gree  as  to  overcome  the  feeling  of  deference,  if  not  fear, 
with  which  the  authority  of  her  liege  lord  had  always  in 
spired  her. 

"  Mr.  Hinkley,  you  won't  strike  William  with  that  whip 
— you  must  not — you  shall  not!"  and,  speaking  thus,  she 
started  up  and  threw  herself  in  the  old  man's  way.  He 
put  her  aside  with  no  measured  movement  of  his  arm,  and 
approached  the  side  of  the  table  where  the  young  man  sat. 

"Run,  William,  run,  if  you  love  me !"  cried  the  terrified 
mother. 

"  I  will  not  run  !"  was  the  answer  of  the  youth,  who  rose 
from  his  seat,  however,  at  the  same  moment  and  confronted 
his  father. 

"Do  not  strike  me,  father!  I  warn  you — do  not  strike 
me.  I  may  be  wrong,  but  I  have  suffered  wrong.  I  did 


BLOWS A    CRISIS.  243 

not  mean,  and  do  not  mean,  to  offend  you.  Let  that  con 
tent  you,  but  do  not  strike  me." 

The  answer  was  a  blow.  The  whip  descended  once,  and 
but  once,  upon  the  shoulders  of  the  young  man.  His  whole 
frame  was  in  a  convulsion.  His  eyes  dilated  with  the  an 
guish  of  his  soul ;  his  features  worked  spasmodically.  There 
was  a  moment's  hesitation.  The  arm  that  smote  him  was 
again  uplifted — the  cruel  and  degrading  instrument  of  pun 
ishment  a  second  time  about  to  descend ;  when,  with  the 
strength  of  youth,  and  the  determination  of  manhood,  the 
son  grasped  the  arm  of  the  father,  and,  without  any  more 
than  the  degree  of  violence  necessary  to  effect  his  object, 
he  tore  the  weapon  from  the  uplifted  hand. 

"  I  can  not  strike  you  /"  he  exclaimed,  addressing  the 
old  man.  "That  blow  has  lost  you  your  son — forever! 
The  shame  and  the  dishonor  shall  rest  on  other  shoulders. 
They  are  better  deserved  here,  and  here  I  place  them !" 

With  these  words,  he  smote  Stevens  over  the  shoulders, 
once,  twice,  thrice,  before  the  latter  could  close  with  him, 
or  the  father  interfere  to  arrest  the  attempt.  Stevens  sprang 
upon  him,  but  the  more  athletic  countryman  flung  him  off, 
and  still  maintained  his  weapon.  The  father  added  his 
efforts  to  those  of  Stevens ;  but  he  shook  himself  free  from 
both,  and,  by  this  time,  the  mother  had  contrived  to  place 
herself  between  the  parties.  William  Hinkley  then  flung 
the  whip  from  the  window,  and  moved  toward  the  door. 
In  passing  Stevens,  he  muttered  a  few  words : — 

"If  there  is  any  skin  beneath  the  cloak  of  the  parson,  I 
trust  I  have  reached  it." 

"  Enough  !"  said  the  other,  in  the  same  low  tone.  "  You 
shall  have  your  wish." 

The  youth  looked  back  once,  with  tearful  eyes,  upon  his 
mother ;  and  making  no  other  answer  but  a  glance  more 
full  of  sorrow  than  anger  to  the  furious  flood  of  denuncia 
tion  which  the  old  man  continued  to  pour  forth,  he  pro 
ceeded  slowly  from  the  apartment  and  the  dwelling. 


244  CIIARLEMONT. 


CHAPTER   XXI. 

CHALLENGE. 

THE  whole  scene  passed  in  very  few  minutes.  No  time 
was  given  for  reflection,  and  each  of  the  parties  obeyed  his 
natural  or  habitual  impulses.  Old  Plinkley,  except  when 
at  prayers,  was  a  man  of  few  words.  He  was  much  more 
prompt  at  deeds  than  words — a  proof  of  which  has  already 
been  shown ;  but  the  good  mother  was  not  so  patient,  and 
made  a  freer  use  of  the  feminine  weapon  than  we  have  been 
willing  to  inflict  upon  our  readers.  Though  she  heartily 
disapproved  of  her  son's  conduct  toward  Stevens,  and  re 
garded  it  as  one  of  the  most  unaccountable  wonders,  the 
offender  was  still  her  son.  She  never  once  forgot,  or  could 
forget,  that.  But  the  rage  of  the  old  man  was  unappeasa 
ble.  The  indignity  to  his  guest,  and  that  guest  of  a  calling 
so  sacred,  was  past  all  forgiveness,  as  it  was  past  all  his 
powers  of  language  fitly  to  describe.  He  swore  to  pursue 
the  offender  with  his  wrath  to  the  end  of  the  world,  to  cut 
him  off  equally  from  his  fortune  and  forgiveness  ;  and  when 
Brother  Stevens,  endeavoring  to  maintain  the  pacific  and 
forgiving  character  which  his  profession  required,  uttered 
some  commonplace  pleading  in  the  youth's  behalf,  he  si 
lenced  him  by  saying  that,  "  were  he  on  the  bed  of 'death, 
and  were  the  offender  then  to  present  himself,  the  last 
prayer  that  he  should  make  to  Heaven  would  be  for  suffi 
cient  strength  to  rise  up  and  complete  the  punishment  which 
he  had  then  begun." 


CHALLENGE.  245 

As  for  Stevens,  though  he  professed  a  more  charitable 
spirit,  his  feelings  were  quite  as  hostile,  and  much  more 
deadly.  He  was  not  without  that  conventional  courage 
which  makes  one,  in  certain  states  of  society,  prompt 
enough  to  place  himself  in  the  fields  of  the  duello.  To  this 
condition  of  preparedness  it  has  hitherto  been  the  training 
of  the  West  that  every  man,  at  all  solicitous  of  public  life, 
must  eventually  come.  As  a  student  of  divinity,  it  was  not 
a  necessity  with  Alfred  Stevens.  Nay,  it  was  essential  to 
the  character  which  he  professed  that,  he  should  eschew 
such  a  mode  of  arbitrament.  But  he  reasoned  on  this  sub 
ject,  as  well  with  reference  to  past  habits  as  to  future  re 
sponsibilities.  His  present  profession  being  simply  a  ruse 
d'amour  (and,  as  he  already  began  to  perceive,  a  harmless 
one  in  the  eyes  of  the  beauty  whom  he  sought,  and  whose 
intense  feelings  and  unregulated  mind  did  not  suffer  her  to 
perceive  the  serious  defects  of  a  character  which  should  at 
tempt  so  impious  a  fraud),  he  was  beginning  to  be  some 
what  indifferent  to  its  preservation ;  and,  with  the  decline 
of  his  caution  in  this  respect,  arose  the  natural  inquiry  as 
to  what  would  be  expected  of  him  in  his  former  relations 
to  society.  Should  it  ever  be  known  hereafter,  at  a  time 
when  he  stood  before  the  people  as  a  candidate  for  some 
high  political  trust,  that  he  had  tamely  submitted  to  the 
infliction  of  a  cowskin,  the  revelation  would  be  fatal  to  all 
his  hopes  of  ambition,  and  conclusive  against  all  his  social 
pretensions.  In  short,  so  far  as  society  was  concerned,  it 
would  be  his  social  death. 

These  considerations  were  felt  in  their  fullest  force.  In 
deed,  their  force  can  not  well  be  conceived  by  the  citizen 
of  any  community  where  the  sense  of  individual  responsi 
bility  is  less  rigid  and  exacting.  They  naturally  outweighed 
all  others  in  the  mind  of  Alfred  Stevens ;  and,  though  no 
fire-eater,  he  not  only  resolved  on  fighting  with  Hinkley, 
but,  smarting  under  the  strokes  of  the  cowskin  —  heavily 
laid  on  as  they  had  been — his  resolution  was  equally  firm 


246  CHARLEMONT. 

that,  in  the  conflict,  they  should  not  separate  until  blood 
was  drawn.  Of  course,  there  were  some  difficulties  to  be 
overcome  in  bringing  about  the  meeting,  but,  where  the 
parties  are  willing,  most  difficulties  are  surmounted  with 
tolerable  ease.  This  being  the  case  at  present,  it  followed 
that  both  minds  were  busy  at  the  same  moment  in  devising 
the  when,  the  how,  and  the  where,  of  the  encounter. 

William  Hinkley  went  from  the  house  of  his  father  to 
that  of  his  cousin  ;  but  the  latter  had  not  yet  returned  from 
that  ride  which  he  had  taken  in  order  to  discover  the  course 
usually  pursued  by  Stevens.  Here  he  sat  down  to  dinner, 
but  the  sister  of  Ned  Hinkley  observed  that  he  ate  little, 
and  fancied  he  was  sick.  That  he  should  come  to  dine 
with  his  cousin  was  too  frequent  a  matter  to  occasion  ques 
tion  or  surprise.  This  lady  was  older  than  her  brother 
by  some  seven  years.  She  was  a  widow,  with  an  only  child, 
a  girl.  The  child  was  a  prattling,  smiling,  good-natured 
thing,  about  seven  years  old,  who  was  never  so  happy  as 
when  on  Cousin  William's  knee.  Poor  William,  indeed, 
was  quite  a  favorite  at  every  house  in  the  village  except 
that  of  Margaret  Cooper,  and,  as  he  sometimes  used  bit 
terly  to  add,  his  own.  On  this  occasion,  however,  the  child 
was  rendered  unhappy  by  the  seeming  indifference  of  Cousin 
William.  The  heart  of  the  young  man  was  too  full  of  grief, 
and  his  mind  of  anxiety,  to  suffer  him  to  bestow  the  usual 
caresses  upon  her;  and  when,  putting  her  down,  he  passed 
into  the  chamber  of  Ned  Hinkley,  the  little  thing  went 
off  to  her  mother,  to  complain  of  the  neglect  she  had  un 
dergone. 

"  Cousin  William  don't  love  Susan  any  more,  mamma," 
was  the  burden  of  her  complaint. 

"  Why  do  you  say  so,  Susan  ?" 

"  He  don't  kiss  me,  mamma  ;  he  don't  keep  me  in  his  lap. 
He  don't  say  good  things  to  me,  and  call  me  his  little  sweet 
heart.  I'm  afraid  Cousin  William's  got  some  other  sweet 
heart.  He  don't  love  Susan." 


CHALLENGE.  247 

It  was  while  the  little  prattler  was  pouring  forth  her 
infantile  sorrows  in  her  mother's  ear,  that  the  voice  of 
William  Hinkley  was  heard,  calling  her  name  from  the 
chamber. 

"  There,  he's  calling  you  now,  Susan.  Run  to  him  and 
kiss  him,  and  see  what  he  wants.  I'm  sure  he  loves  you 
just  as  much  as  ever.  He's  got  no  other  sweetheart." 

"  I'll  run,  mamma — that  I  will.  I'm  so  glad  !  I  hope  he 
loves  me !"  and  the  little  innocent  scampered  away  to  the 
chamber.  Her  artless  tongue,  as  she  approached,  enabled 
him  to  perceive  what  had  been  her  grievances. 

"  Do  you  call  me  to  love  me,  and  to  kiss  me,  Cousin 
William,  and  to  make  me  your  sweetheart  again  ?" 

"  Yes,  Susan,  you  shall  be  my  only  sweetheart.  I  will 
kiss  nobody  but  you." 

"  You'll  forget — you  will — you'll  put  me  out  of  your 
lap,  and  go  away  shaking  your  head,  and  looking  so  !  — " 
and  here  the  observant  little  creature  attempted  a  childish 
imitation  of  the  sad  action  and  the  strange,  moody  gestures 
with  which  he  had  put  her  down  when  he  was  retiring  from 
the  room — gestures  and  looks  which  the  less  quick  eyes  of 
her  mother  had  failed  utterly  to  perceive. 

"  No,  no  !"  said  he,  with  a  sad  smile  ;  "  no,  Susan.  I'll 
keep  you  in  my  lap  for  an  hour  whenever  I  come,  and  you 
shall  be  my  sweetheart  always." 

"  Your  little  sweetheart,  your  little  Susan,  Cousin  William." 

"  Yes,  my  dear  little  Susan,  my  dearest  little  sweetheart 
Susan." 

And  he  kissed  the  child  fondly  while  he  spoke,  and  pat 
ted  her  rosy  cheeks  with  a  degree  of  tenderness  which  his 
sad  and  wandering  thoughts  did  not  materially  diminish. 

"  But  now,  Susan,"  said  he,  "  if  I  am  to  be  your  sweet 
heart,  and  to  love  you  always,  you  must  do  all  that  I  bid 
you.  You  must  go  where  I  send  you." 

"  Don't  I,  Cousin  William  ?  When  you  send  me  to 
Gran'pa  Calvert,  don't  I  go  and  bring  you  books,  and  didn't 


248  CH^RLEMONT. 

I  always  run,  and  come  back  soon,  and  never  play  by  tho 
way  ?" 

"  You're  a  dear  Susan,"  said  he ;  "  and  I  want  you  to 
carry  a  paper  for  me  now.  Do  you  see  this  little  paper  ? 
What  is  it  ?" 

"  A  note  — don't  I  know  ?" 

"  Well,  you  must  carry  this  note  for  me  to  uncle's,  but 
you  mustn't  give  it  to  uncle,  nor  to  aunty,  nor  to  anybody 
but  the  young  man  that  lives  there — young  Mr.  Stevens." 

"  Parson  Stevens,"  said  the  little  thing,  correcting  him. 

"  Ay,  ay,  Parson  Stevens,  if  you  please.  You  must  give 
it  to  him,  and  him  only ;  and  he  will  give  you  a  paper  to 
bring  back  to  me.  Will  you  go  now,  Susan  ?" 

"  Yes,  I'll  go :  but,  Cousin  William,  are  you  going  to 
shoot  the  little  guns  ?  Don't  shoot  them  till  I  come  back, 
will  you  ?" 

The  child  pointed  to  a  pair  of  pistols  which  lay  upon  the 
table  where  William  Hinkley  had  penned  the  billet.  A 
flush  of  consciousness  passed  over  the  young  man's  cheek. 
It  seemed  to  him  as  if  the  little  innocent's  inquiry  had 
taken  the  aspect  of  an  accusation.  He  promised  and  dis 
missed  her,  and,  when  she  had  disappeared,  proceeded  to 
put  the  pistols  in  some  condition  for  use.  In  that  time  and 
region,  duels  were  not  often  fought  with  those  costly  and 
powerful  weapons,  the  pistols  of  rifle  bore  and  sight.  The 
rifle,  or  the  ordinary  horseman's  pistol,  answered  the  pur 
poses  of  hate.  The  former  instrument,  in  the  hands  of  the 
Kentuckian,  was  a  deadly  weapon  always ;  and,  in  the 
grasp  of  a  firm  hand,  and  under  the  direction  of  a  practised 
eye,  the  latter,  at  ten  paces,  was  scarcely  less  so.  This 
being  the  case,  but  few  refinements  were  necessary  to  bring 
about  the  most  fatal  issues  of  enmity ;  and  the  instruments 
which  William  Hinkley  was  preparing  for  the  field  were 
such  as  would  produce  a  smile  on  the  lips  of  more  civilized 
combatants.  They  were  of  the  coarsest  kind  of  holster- 
pistols,  and  had  probably  seen  service  in  the  Revolution. 


CHALLENGE.  249 

The  stocks  were  rickety,  the  barrels  thin,  the  bore  almost 
large  enough  for  grape,  and  really  such  as  would  receive 
and  disgorge  a  three-ounce  bullet  with  little  straining  or 
reluctance.  They  had  been  the  property  of  his  own  grand 
father,  and  their  value  for  use  was  perhaps  rather  height 
ened  than  diminished  by  the  degree  of  veneration  which,  in 
the  family,  was  attached  to  their  history. 

William.  Hinkley  soon  put  them  in  the  most  efficient  or 
der.  He  was  not  a  practised  hand,  but  an  American  for 
ester  is  a  good  shot  almost  by  instinct ;  he  naturally  cleaves 
to  a  gun,  and  without  instruction  learns  its  use.  William, 
however,  did  not  think  much  of  what  he  could  hit,  at  what 
distance,  and  under  what  circumstances.  Nothing,  perhaps, 
could  better  show  the  confidence  in  himself  and  weapon 
than  the  inattention  which  the  native-born  woodman  usually 
exhibits  to  these  points.  Let  his  weapon  be  such  as  he  can 
rely  upon,  and  his  cause  of  quarrel  such  as  can  justify  his 
anger,  and  the  rest  seems  easy,  and  gives  him  little  annoy 
ance.  This  was  now  the  case  with  our  rustic.  He  never, 
for  a  moment,  thought  of  practising.  He  had  shot  repeat 
edly,  and  knew  what  he  could  do.  His  simple  object  was 
to  bring  his  enemy  to  the  field,  and  to  meet  him  there.  Ac 
cordingly,  when  he  had  loaded  both  pistols,  which  he  did 
with  equal  care,  and  with  a  liberal  allowance  of  lead  and 
powder,  he  carefully  put  them  away  without  offering  to  test 
his  own  skill  or  their  capacities.  On  this  subject,  his  in 
difference  would  have  appeared,  to  a  regular  duellist,  the 
very  extreme  of  obtuseness. 

His  little  courier  conveyed  his  billet  to  Stevens  in  due 
season.  As  she  had  been  instructed,  she  gave  it  into  the 
hands  of  Stevens  only ;  but,  when  she  delivered  it,  old 
Hinkley  was  present,  and  she  named  the  person  by  whom 
it  was  sent. 

"My  son!  what  does  he  say?"  demanded  the  old  man, 
half-suspecting  the  purport  of  the  billet. 

"Ah !"  exclaimed  Stevens,  witli  the  readiness  of  a  prao 
11* 


250  CHARLEMONT. 

tised  actor,  "  there  is  some  hope,  I  am  glad  to  tell  you,  Mr. 
Hinkley,  of  his  coming  to  his  senses.  He  declares  his  wish 
to  atone,  and  invites  me  to  see  him.  I  have  no  doubt  that 
he  wishes  me  to  mediate  for  him." 

"  I  will  never  forgive  him  while  I  have  breath !"  cried 
the  old  man,  leaving  the  room.  "  Tell  him  that !" 

"  Wait  a  moment,  my  pretty  one,"  said  Stevens,  as  he 
was  about  retiring  to  his  chamber,  "  till  I  can  write  an  an 
swer." 

The  billet  of  Hinkley  he  again  read.  We  may  do  so 
likewise.  It  was  to  the  following  effect : — 

"  SIR  :  If  I  understood  your  last  assurance  on  leaving 
you  this  day,  I  am  to  believe  that  the  stroke  of  my  whip  has 
made  its  proper  impression  on  your  soul  —  that  you  are 
willing  to  use  the  ordinary  means  of  ordinary  persons,  to 
avenge  an  indignity  which  was  not  confined  to  your  cloth. 
If  so,  meet  me  at  the  lake  with  whatever  weapons  you  choose 
to  bring.  I  will  be  there,  provided  with  pistols  for  both,  at 
any  hour  from  three  to  six.  I  shall  proceed  to  the  spot  as 
soon  as  I  receive  your  answer.  "  W.  H." 

u  Short  and  sharp  !"  exclaimed  Stevens  as  he  read  the 
billet.  "  <  Who  would  have  thought  that  the  young  man 
had  so  much  blood  in  him  !'  Well,  we  will  not  balk  your 
desire,  Master  Hinkley.  We  will  meet  you,  in  verity, 
though  it  may  compel  me  to  throw  up  my  present  hand  and 
call  for  other  cards.  Nimporte :  there  is  no  other  course." 

While  soliloquizing,  he  penned  his  answer,  which  was 
brief  and  to  the  purpose :  — 

"  I  will  meet  you  as  soon  as  I  can  steal  off  without  pro 
voking  suspicion.  I  have  pistols  which  I  will  bring  with 
me.  "A.  S."' 

"  There,  my  little  damsel,"  said  he,  re-entering  the 
dining-room,  and  putting  the  sealed  paper  into  the  hands  of 


CHALLENGE.  251 

the  child,  "  cany  that  to  Mr.  Hinkley,  and  tell  him  I  will 
come  and  speak  with  him  as  he  begs  me.  But  the  note  will 
tell  him." 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  So " 

Mrs.  Hinkley  entered  the  room  at  this  moment.  Her 
husband  had  apprized  her  of  the  communication  which  her 
son  had  made,  and  the  disposition  to  atonement  arid  repent 
ance  which  he  had  expressed.  She  was  anxious  to  confirm 
this  good  disposition,  to  have  her  son  brought  back  within 
the  fold,  restored  to  her  own  affections  and  the  favor  of  his 
father.  The  latter,  it  is  true,  had  signified  his  determined 
hostility,  even  while  conveying  his  intelligence ;  but  the 
mother  was  sanguine  —  when  was  a  mother  otherwise  ?  — 
that  all  things  would  come  right  which  related  to  her  only 
child.  She  now  came  to  implore  the  efforts  of  Stevens  ;  to 
entreat,  that,  like  a  good  Christian,  he  would  not  suffer  the 
shocking  stripes  which  her  son,  in  his  madness,  had  inflicted 
upon  him  to  outweigh  his  charity,  to  get  the  better  of  his 
blessed  principles?  and  make  him  war  upon  the  atoning 
spirit  which  had  so  lately,  and  so  suddenly  wakened  up  in 
the  bosom  of  the  unruly  boy.  She  did  not  endeavor  to 
qualify  the  offence  of  which  her  son  had  been  guilty.  She 
was  far  from  underrating  the  indignity  to  which  Stevens 
had  been  subjected;  but  the  offender  was  her  son — her 
only  son  —  in  spite  of  all  his  faults,  follies,  and  imperfec 
tions,  the  apple  of  her  eye — the  only  being  for  whom  she 
cared  to  live ! 

Ah  !  the  love  of  a  mother! — what  a  holy  thing  !  sadly 
wanting  in  judgment — frequently  misleading,  perverting, 
nay,  dooming  the  object  which  it  loves  ;  but,  nevertheless, 
most  pure  ;  least  selfish  ;  truest ;  most  devoted  ! 

And  the  tears  gushed  from  the  old  woman's  eyes  as  she 
caught  the  hand  of  Stevens  in  her  own,  and  kissed  it— 
kissed  his  hand  —  could  William  Hinkley  have  seen  that, 
how  it  would  have  rankled,  how  he  would  have  writhed  \ 


252  CHARLEMONT. 

She  kissed  the  hands  of  that  wily  hypocrite,  bedewing  them 
with  her  tears,  as  if  he  were  some  benign  and  blessing 
saint ;  and  not  because  he  had  shown  any  merits  or  prac 
tised  any  virtues,  but  simply  because  of  certain  professions 
which  he  had  made,  and  in  which  she  had  perfect  faith  be 
cause  of  the  professions,  and  not  because  of  any  previous 
knowledge  which  she  had  of  the  professor.  Truly,  it  be 
hooves  a  rogue  monstrous  much  to  know  what  garment  it  is 
best  to  wear ;  the  question  is  equally  important  to  rogue 
and  dandy. 

Stevens  made  a  thousand  assurances  in  the  most  Chris 
tian  spirit — we  can  not  say  that  he  gave  her  tear  for  tear 
—  promised  to  do  his  best  to  bring  back  the  prodigal  son 
to  her  embrace,  and  the  better  to  effect  this  object,  put  his 
pistols  under  his  belt !  Within  the  hour  he  was  on  his  way 
to  the  place  of  meeting. 


FOOT  TO    FOOT.  253 


CHAPTER    XXII. 

FOOT   TO    FOOT. 

WILLIAM  HINKLEY  was  all  impatience  until  his  little 
messenger  returned,  which  she  did  with  a  speed  which 
might  deserve  commendation  in  the  case  of  our  professional 
Mercuries  —  stage -drivers  and  mail  contractors,  hight ! 
He  did  not  withhold  it  from  the  little  maid,  but  taking 
her  in  his  arms,  and  kissing  her  fondly,  he  despatched  her 
to  her  mother,  while  he  wrapped  up  his  pistols  and  conceal 
ing  them  in  the  folds  of  his  coat,  hurried  from  the  house 
with  the  anxious  haste  of  one  who  is  going  to  seek  his 
prey.  He  felt  somewhat  like  that  broad-winged  eagle 
which  broods  on  the  projecting  pinnacle  of  yonder  rocky 
peak  in  waiting  for  the  sea-hawk  who  is  stooping  far  below 
him,  watching  when  the  sun's  rays  shall  glisten  from  the 
uprising  fins  of  his  favorite  fish.  But  it  was  not  a  selfish 
desire  to  secure  the  prey  which  the  terror  of  the  other 
might  cause  him  to  drop.  It  was  simply  to  punish  the 
prowler.  Poor  William  could  not  exactly  tell  indeed  why 
he  wished  to  shoot  Alfred  Stevens;  but  his  cause  of  hostil 
ity  was  not  less  cogent  because  it  had  no  name.  The 
thousand  little  details  which  induce  our  prejudices  in  regard 
to  persons,  are,  singly,  worth  no  one's  thought,  and  would 
possibly  provoke  the  contempt  of  all ;  but  like  the  myriad 
threads  which  secured  the  huge  frame  of  Gulliver  in  his 
descent  upon  Lilliput,  they  are,  when  united,  able  to  bind 
the  biggest  giant  of  us  all. 

The  prejudices  of  William  Hinkley,  though  very  natural 


254  CHARLEMONT. 

in  such  a  case  as  his,  seemed  to  him  very  much  like  in 
stincts.  It  seemed  to  him,  if  he  once  reasoned  on  the  mat 
ter,  that,  as  he  had  good  cause  to  hate  the  intruder,  so 
there  must  be  justification  for  shooting  him.  Were  this  not 
so,  the  policy  of  hating  would  be  very  questionable,  and 
surely  very  unprofitable.  It  would  be  a  great  waste  of  a 
very  laudable  quantity  of  feeling — something  like  omitting 
one's  bullet  in  discharging  one's  piece  —  a  profligacy  only 
justifiable  in  a  feu  de  joie  after  victory,  where  the  bullets 
have  already  done  all  necessary  mischief,  and  will  warrant 
a  small  subsequent  waste  of  the  more  harmless  material. 

"Without  designing  any  such  child's  play,  our  rustic  hero, 
properly  equipped  with  his  antique  pistols,  well  charged, 
close  rammed,  three-ounce  bullets,  or  nearabouts,  in  each, 
stood,  breathing  fire  but  without  cooling,  on  the  edge  of  the 
lake,  perched  on  an  eminence  and  looking  out  for  the  com 
ing  enemy.  He  was  playing  an  unwonted  character,  but  he 
felt  as  if  it  were  quite  familiar  to  him.  He  had  none  of 
that  nice  feeling  which,  without  impugning  courage,  is  n'at- 
ural  enough  to  inexperience  in  such  cases.  The  muzzles  of 
the  pistols  did  not  appear  to  him  particularly  large.  He 
never  once  thought  of  his  own  ribs  being  traversed  by  his 
three-ounce  messengers.  He  had  no  misgivings  on  the  sub 
ject  of  his  future  digestion.  He  only  thought  of  that  blow 
from  his  father's  hand — that  keen  shaft  from  the  lips 
of  Margaret  Cooper — that  desolation  which  had  fallen 
upon  his  soul  from  the  scorn  of  both ;  and  the  vengeance 
which  it  was  in  his  power  to  inflict  upon  the  fortunate  inter 
loper  to  whose  arts  he  ascribed  all  his  misfortunes  !  and 
with  these  thoughts  his  fury  and  impatience  increased,  and 
he  ascended  the  highest  hill  to  look  out  for  his  foe ;  de 
scended,  in  the  next  moment,  to  the  edge  of  the  lake,  the 
better  to  prepare  for  the  meeting. 

In  this  state  of  excitement  the  meekness  had  departed 
from  his  countenance  ;  an  entire  change  of  expression  had 
taken  place:  he  stood  up,  erect,  bold,  eagle-eyed,  with  the 


FOOT   TO   FOOT.  255 

look  of  one  newly  made  a  man  by  the  form  of  indomitable 
will,  and  feeling,  for  the  first  time,  man's  terrible  commis 
sion  to  destroy.  In  a  moment,  with  the  acquisition  of  new 
moods,  he  had  acquired  a  new  aspect.  Hitherto,  he  had 
been  tame,  seemingly  devoid  of  spirit — you  have  not  for 
gotten  the  reproaches  of  his  cousin,  which  actually  conveyed 
an  imputation  against  his  manliness?  —  shrinking,  with  a 
feeling  of  shyness  akin  to  mauvaise  honte,  and  almost  sub 
mitting  to  injustice,  to  avoid  the  charge  of  ill-nature.  The 
change  that  we  have  described  in  his  soul,  had  made  itself 
singularly  apparent  in  his  looks.  They  were  full  of  a  grim 
determination.  Had  he  gazed  upon  his  features,  in  the 
glassy  surface  of  the  lake  beside  him,  he  had  probably  re 
coiled  from  their  expression. 

We  have  seen  Mrs.  Hinkley  sending  Stevens  forth  for 
the  purpose  of  recalling  her  son  to  his  senses,  receiving  his 
repentance,  and  bringing  him  once  more  home  into  the 
bosom  of  his  flock.  We  have  not  forgotten  the  brace  of 
arguments  with  which  he  provided  himself  in  order  to  bring 
about  this  charitable  determination.  Stevens  was  a  shot. 
He  could  snuff  his  candle  at  ten  paces,  sever  his  bamboo, 
divide  the  fingers  of  the  hand  with  separate  bullets  without 
grazing  the  skin  —  nay,  more,  as  was  said  in  the  euphuistic 
phraseology  of  his  admirers,  send  his  ball  between  soul  and 
body  without  impairing  the  integrity  of  either. 

But  men  may  do  much  shooting  at  candle  or  bamboo,  who 
would  do  precious  little  while  another  is  about  to  shoot  at 
them.  There  is  a  world  of  difference  between  looking  in  a 
bull's-eye,  and  looking  in  the  eye  of  man.  A  pistol,  too, 
looks  far  less  innocent,  regarded  through  the  medium  of  a 
yawning  muzzle,  than  the  rounded  and  neatly-polished  butt. 
The  huge  mouth  seems  to  dilate  as  you  look  upon  it.  You 
already  begin  to  fancy  you  behold  the  leaden  mass — the 
three-ounce  bullet — issuing  from  its  stronghold,  like  a  re 
lentless  baron  of  the  middle  ages,  going  forth  under  his 
grim  archway,  seeking  only  whom  he  may  devour.  The 


256  CHARLEMONT. 

sight  is  apt  to  diminish  the  influence  of  skill.  Nerves  are 
necessary  to  such  sportsmen,  and  nerves  become  singularly 
untrue  when  frowned  upon  through  such  a  medium. 

Under  this  view  of  the  case,  we  are  not  so  sure  that  the 
excellence  of  aim  for  which  Alfred  Stevens  has  been  so 
much  lauded,  will  make  the  difference  very  material  be 
tween  the  parties  ;  and  now  that  he  is  fairly  roused,  there 
is  a  look  of  the  human  devil  about  William  Hinkley,  that 
makes  him  promise  to  be  dangerous.  Nay,  the  very  pistols 
that  he  wields,  those  clumsy,  rusty,  big-mouthed  ante-revolu 
tionary  machines,  which  his  stout  grandsire  carried  at 
Camden  and  Eutaw,  have  a  look  of  service  about  them — 
a  grim,  veteran-like  aspect,  that  makes  them  quite  as  per 
ilous  to  face  as  to  handle.  If  they  burst  they  will  blow  on 
all  sides.  There  will  be  fragments  enough  for  friend  and 
foe ;  and  even  though  Stevens  may  not  apprehend  so  much 
from  the  aim  of  his  antagonist,  something  of  deference  is 
due  to  the  possibility  of  such  a  concussion,  as  will  make  up 
all  his  deficiencies  of  skill. 

But  they  have  not  yet  met,  though  Stevens,  with  praise 
worthy  Christianity,  is  on  his  way  to  keep  his  engagements, 
as  well  to  mother  as  to  son.  He  has  his  own  pistols — not 
made  for  this  purpose — but  a  substantial  pair  of  traveller's 
babes — big  of  mouth,  long  of  throat,  thick  of  jaw,  keen 
of  sight,  quick  of  speech,  strong  of  wind,  and  weighty  of 
argument.  They  are  rifled  bores  also,  and,  in  the  hands 
of  the  owner,  have  done  clever  things  at  bottle  and  sapling. 
Stevens  would  prefer  to  have  the  legitimate  things,  but 
these  babes  are  trustworthy ;  and  he  has  no  reason  to  sup 
pose  that  the  young  rustic  whom  he  goes  to  meet  can  pro 
duce  anything  more  efficient.  He  had  no  idea  of  those 
ancient  bull-pups,  those  solemn  ante-revolutionary  barkers, 
which  our  grandsire  used  upon  harder  heads  than  his,  at 
Camden  and  the  Eutaws.  He  is  scarcely  so  confident  in 
his  own  weapons  when  his  eye  rests  on  the  rusty  tools  of 
his  enemy. 


FOOT   TO    FOOT.  257 

But  it  was  not  destined  that  this  fight  should  take  place 
without  witnesses.  In  spite  of  all  the  precautions  of  the 
parties,  and  they  were  honest  in  taking  them,  our  little 
village  had  its  inklings  of  what  was  going  on.  There  were 
certain  signs  of  commotion  and  explosion  which  made 
themselves  understood.  Our  little  maid,  Susan  Hinkley, 
was  the  first,  very  innocently,  to  furnish  a  clue  to  the 
mystery.  She  had  complained  to  her  mother  that  Cousin 
William  had  not  shot  the  little  guns  for  her  according  to 
his  promise. 

"  But,  perhaps,  he  didn't  want  to  shoot  them,  Susan." 

"  Yes,  mamma,  he  put  them  in  his  pockets.  He's  carried 
them  to  shoot;  and  he  promised  to  shoot  them  for  me  as 
soon  as  I  carried  the  note." 

"  And  to  whom  did  you  carry  the  note,  Susan  ?"  asked 
the  mother. 

"  To  the  young  parson,  at  Uncle  William's." 

The  mother  had  not  been  unobservant  of  the  degree  of 
hostility  which  her  brother,  as  well  as  cousin,  entertained 
for  Stevens.  They  had  both  very  freely  expressed  their 
dislike  in  her  presence.  Some  of  their  conferences  had 
been  overheard  and  were  now  recalled,  in  which  this  ex 
pression  of  dislike  had  taken  the  form  of  threats,  vague 
and  purposeless,  seemingly,  at  the  time ;  but  which  now, 
taken  in  connection  with  what  she  gathered  from  the  lips 
of  the  child,  seemed  of  portentous  interest.  Then,  when 
she  understood  that  Stevens  had  sent  a  note  in  reply — and 
that  both  notes  were  sealed,  the  quick,  feminine  mind  in 
stantly  jumped  to  the  right  conclusion. 

"  They  are  surely  going  to  fight.  Get  my  bonnet,  Susan, 
I  must  run  to  Uncle  William's,  and  tell  him  while  there's 
time.  •  "Which  way  did  Cousin  William  go  ?" 

The  child  could  tell  her  nothing  but  that  he  had  taken  to 
the  hills. 

"  That  brother  Ned  shouldn't  be  here  now  !  Though  I 
don't  see  the  good  of  his  being  here.  He'd  only  make 


258  CHARLEMONT. 

matters  worse.  Run,  Susan — run  over  to  Gran'pa  Calvert, 
and  tell  him  to  come  and  stop  them  from  fighting,  while  I 
hurry  to  Uncle  William's.  Lord  save  us  !  —  and  let  me  get 
there  in  time." 

The  widow  had  a  great  deal  more  to  say,  but  this  was 
quite  enough  to  bewilder  the  little  girl.  Nevertheless,  she 
set  forth  to  convey  the  mysterious  message  to  Grand'pa 
Calvert,  though  the  good  mother  never  once  reflected  that 
this  message  was  of  the  sort  which  assumes  the  party  ad 
dressed  to  be  already  in  possession  of  the  principal  facts. 
While  she  took  one  route  the  mother  pursued  another,  and 
the  two  arrived  at  their  respective  places  at  about  the  same 
time.  Stevens  had  already  left  old  Hinkley's  when  the 
widow  got  there,  and  the  consternation  of  Mrs.  Hinkley 
was  complete.  The  old  man  was  sent  for  to  the  fields,  and 
carne  in  only  to  declare  that  some  such  persuasion  had  filled 
his  own  mind  when  first  the  billet  of  his  son  had  been  re 
ceived.  But  the  suspicion  of  the  father  was  of  a  much 
harsher  sort  than  that  of  the  widow  Hinkley.  In  her  sight 
it  was  a  duel  only — bad  enough  as  a  duel — but  still  only 
a  duel,  where  the  parties  incurring  equal  risks,  had  equal 
rights.  But  the  conception  of  the  affair,  as  it  occurred  to 
old  Hinkley,  was  very  different. 

"Base  serpent!"  he  exclaimed — "he  has  sent  for  the 
good  young  man  only  to  murder  him.  He  implores  him  to 
come  to  him,  in  an  artful  writing,  pretending  to  be  sorely 
sorrowful  .and  full  of  repentance ;  and  he  prepares  the 
weapon  of  murder  to  slay  him  when  he  comes.  Was  there 
ever  creature  so  base  ! — but  I  will  hunt  him  out.  God  give 
me  strength,  and  grant  that  I  may  find  him  in  season." 

Thus  saying,  the  old  man  seized  his  crab-stick,  a  knotty 
club,  that  had  been  seasoned  in  a  thousand  smokes,  and 
toughened  by  the  use  of  twenty  years.  His  wife  caught 
up  Her  bonnet  and  hurried  with  the  widow  Hinkley  in  his 
train.  Meanwhile,  by  cross-examining  the  child,  Mr.  Cal 
vert  had  formed  some  plausible  conjectures  of  what  was  on 


FOOT   TO    FOOT.  259 

foot,  and  by  the  time  that  the  formidable  procession  had 
reached  his  neighborhood  he  was  prepared  to  join  it. 
Events  thickened  with  the  increasing  numbers.  New  facts 
came  in  to  the  aid  of  old  ones  partially  understood.  The 
widow  Thackeray,  looking  from  her  widow,  as  young  and 
handsome  widows  are  very  much  in  the  habit  of  doing,  had 
seen  William  Hiukley  going  by  toward  the  hill,  with  a  very 
rapid  stride  and  a  countenance  very  much  agitated  ;  and  an 
hour  afterward  she  had  seen  Brother  Stevens  following  on 
the  same  route — good  young  man! — with  the  most  heav 
enly  and  benignant  smile  upon  his  countenance — the  very 
personification  of  the  cherub  and  the  seraph,  commissioned 
to  subdue  the  fiend. 

u  Here  is  some  of  your  treachery,  Mr.  Calvert.  You 
have  spoiled  this  boy  of  mine ;  turning  his  head  with  law 
studies  ;  and  making  him  disobedient — giving  him  counsel 
and  encouragement  against  his  father — and  filling  his  mind 
with  evil  things.  It  is  all  your  doing,  and  your  books. 
And  now  he's  turned  out  a  bloody  murderer,  a  papist  mur 
derer,  with  your  Roman  catholic  doctrines." 

"  I  am.  no  Roman  catholic,  Mr.  Hinkley,"  was  the  mild 
reply — "  and  as  for  William  becoming  a  murderer,  I  think 
that  improbable.  I  have  a  better  opinion  of  your  son  than 
you  have." 

"  He's  an  ungrateful  cub  —  a  varmint  of  the  wilderness — 
to  strike  the  good  young  man  in  my  own  presence  —  to 
strike  him  with  a  cowskin  — what  do  you  think  of  that,  sir  ? 
answer  me  that,  if  you  please." 

"Did  William  Hinkley  do  this?"  demanded  the  old 
teacher  earnestly. 

"  Ay,  that  he  did,  did  he  !" 

"  I  can  hardly  understand  it.  There  must  have  been 
some  grievous  provocation  ?" 

"  Yes  ;  it  was  a  grievous  provocation,  indeed,  to  have  to 
wait  for  grace  before  meat." 

"  Was  that  all  ?  can  it  be  possible  !" 


260  CHARLEMONT. 

The  mother  of  the  offender  supplied  the  hiatus  in  the 
story  —  and  Calvcrt  was  somewhat  relieved.  Though  he 
did  not  pretend  to  justify  the  assault  of  the  youth,  he 
readily  saw  how  he  had  been  maddened  by  the  treatment 
of  his  father.  He  saw  that  the  latter  was  in  a  high  pitch 
of  religious  fury — his  prodigious  self-esteem  taking  part 
witli  it,  naturally  enough,  against  a  son,  who,  until  this 
instance,  had  never  risen  in  defiance  against  either.  Ex 
postulation  and  argument  were  equally  vain  with  him  ;  and 
ceasing  the  attempt  at  persuasion,  Calvert  hurried  on  with 
the  rest,  being  equally  anxious  to  arrest  the  meditated  vio 
lence,  whether  that  contemplated  the  murderous  assassi 
nation  which  the  father  declared,  or  the  less  heinous  pro 
ceeding  of  the  duel  which  he  suspected. 

There  was  one  thing  which  made  him  tremble  for  his  own 
confidence  in  William  Hinkley's  propriety  of  course.  It 
was  the  difficulty  which  he  had  with  the  rest,  in  believing 
that  the  young  student  of  divinity  would  fight  a  duel.  This 
doubt,  he  felt,  must  be  that  of  his  pupil  also :  whether  the 
latter  had  any  reason  to  suppose  that  Stevens  would  depart 
from  the  principles  of  his  profession,  and  waive  the  securi 
ties  which  it  afforded,  he  had  of  course,  no  means  for  con 
jecturing;  but  his  confidence  in  William  induced  him  to 
believe  that  some  such  impression  upon  his  mind  had  led 
him*  to  the  measure  of  sending  a  challenge,  which,  other 
wise,  addressed  to  a  theologian,  would  have  been  a  shame 
less  mockery. 

There  was  a  long  running  fire,  by  way  of  conversation 
and  commentary,  which  was  of  course  maintained  by  these 
toiling  pedestrians,  cheering  the  way  as  they  went;  but 
though  it  made  old  Hinkley  peccant  and  wrathy,  and  ex 
ercised  the  vernacular  of  the  rest  to  very  liberal  extent,  we 
do  not  care  to  distress  the  reader  with  it.  It  may  have 
been  very  fine  or  not.  It  is  enough  to  say  that  the  general 
tenor  of  opinion  run  heavily  against  our  unhappy  rustic,  and 
in  favor  of  the  good  young  man,  Stevens.  Mrs.  Thackeray, 


FOOT    TO    FOOT.  261 

the  widow,  to  whom  Stevens  had  paid  two  visits  or  more 
since  he  had  been  in  the  village,  and  who  had  her  own  rea 
sons  for  doubting  that  Margaret  Cooper  had  really  obtained 
any  advantages  in  the  general  struggle  to  find  favor  in  the 
sight  of  this  handsome  man  of  God  —  was  loud  in  her  eulogy 
upon  the  latter,  and  equally  unsparing  in  her  denunciations 
of  the  village  lad  who  meditated  so  foul  a  crime  as  the  ex 
tinguishing  so  blessed  a  light.  Her  denunciations  at  length 
aroused  all  the  mother  in  Mrs.  Hinkley's  breast,  and  the 
two  dames  had  it,  hot  and  heavy,  until,  as  the  parties  ap 
proached  the  lake,  old  Hinkley,  with  a  manner  all  his  own, 
enjoined  the  most  profound  silence,  and  hushed,  without 
settling  the  dispute. 

Meanwhile,  the  combatants  had  met.  William  Hinkley, 
having  ascended  the  tallest  perch  among  the  hills,  beheld 
his  enemy  approaching  at  a  natural  pace  and  at  a  short  dis-- 
tance.  He  descended  rapidly  to  meet  him  and  the  parties 
joined  at  the  foot  of  the  woodland  path  leading  down  to 
the  lake,  where,  but  a  few  days  before,  we  beheld  Stevens 
and  Margaret  Cooper.  Stevens.was  somewhat  surprised  to 
note  the  singular  and  imposing  change  which  a  day,  almost 
an  hour,  had  wrought  in  the  looks  and  bearing  of  the  young 
rustic.  His  good,  and  rather  elevated  command  of  lan 
guage,  had  struck  him  previously  as  very  remarkable,  but 
this  had  been  explained  by  his  introduction  to  Mr.  Calvert, 
who,  as  his  teacher,  he  soon  found  was  very  well  able  to 
make  him  what  he  was.  It  was  the  high  bearing,  the 
courteous  defiance,  the  superior  consciousness  of  strength 
and  character,  which  now  spoke  in  the  tone  and  manner  of 
the  youth.  A  choice  military  school,  for  years,  could 
scarcely  have  brought  about  a  more  decided  expression  of 
that  subdued  heroism,  which  makes  mere  manliness  a  mat 
ter  of  chivalry,  and  dignifies  brute  anger  and  blind  hostility 
into  something  like  a  sentiment.  Under  the  prompting  of 
a  good  head,  a  generous  temper,  and  the  goodness  of  a 
highly-roused,  but  legitimate  state  of  feeling,  William  Hink- 


262  CHARLEMONT. 

ley  wore  the  very  appearance  of  that  nobleness,  pride,  ease, 
firmness,  and  courtesy,  which,  in  the  conventional  world,  it 
is  so  difficult,  yet  held  to  be  so  important,  to  impress  upon 
the  champion  when  ready  for  the  field.  A  genuine  son  of 
thunder  would  have  rejoiced  in  his  deportment,  and  though 
a  sneering,  jealous  and  disparaging  temper,  Alfred  Stevens 
could  not  conceal  from  himself  the  conviction  that  there 
was  stuff  in  the  young  man  which  it  needed  nothing  but 
trial  and  rough  attrition  to  bring  out. 

William  Hinkley  bowed  at  his  approach,  and  pointed  to 
a  close  footpath  leading  to  the  rocks  on  the  opposite  shore. 

"  There,  sir,  we  shall  be  more  secret.  There  is  a  narrow 
grove  above,  just  suited  to  our  purpose.  Will  it  please  you 
to  proceed  thither  ?" 

"  As  you  please,  Mr.  Hinkley,"  was  the  reply ;  "  I  have 
no  disposition  to  balk  your  particular  desires.  But  the 
sight  of  this  lake  reminds  me  that  I  owe  you  my  life  ?" 

"  I  had  thought,  sir,  that  the  indignity  which  I  put  upon 
you,  would  cancel  all  such  memories,"  was  the  stern  reply. 

The  cheek  of  Stevens  became  crimson  —  his  eye  flashed 
—  he  felt  the  sarcasm  —  but  something  was  due  to  his  posi 
tion,  and  he  was  cool  enough  to  make  a  concession  to  cir 
cumstances.  He  answered  with  tolerable  calmness,  though 
not  without  considerable  effort. 

"  It  has  cancelled  the  obligation,  sir,  if  not  the  memory  ! 
I  certainly  can  owe  you  nothing  for  a  life  which  you  have 
attempted  to  disgrace — " 

"  Which  I  have  disgraced  !"  said  the  other,  interrupting 
him. 

"  You  are  right,  sir.  How  far,  however,  you  have  shown 
your  manhood  in  putting  an  indignity  upon  one  whose  pro 
fession  implies  peace,  and  denounces  war,  you  are  as  well 
prepared  to  answer  as  myself." 

"  The  cloth  seems  to  be  of  precious  thickness !"  was  the 
answer  of  Hinkley,  with  a  smile  of  bitter  and  scornful 
sarcasm. 


FOOT    TO    FOOT.  263 

"If  you  mean  to  convoy  the  idea  that  I  do  not  feel  the 
shame  of  the  blow,  and  am  not  determined  on  avenging  it, 
young  man,  you  are  in  error.  You  will  find  that  I  am  not 
less  determined  because  I  am  most  cool.  I  have  come  out 
deliberately  for  the  purpose  of  meeting  you.  My  purpose 
in  reminding  you  of  my  profession  was  simply  to  undeceive 
you.  It  appears  to  me  not  impossible  that  the  knowledge 
of  it  has  made  you  somewhat  bolder  than  you  otherwise 
might  have  been." 

"  What  mean  you  ?"  was  the  stern  demand  of  Hinkley, 
uttered  in  very  startling  accents. 

"  To  tell  you  that  I  have  not  always  been  a  non-combat 
ant,  that  I  am  scarcely  one  now,  and  that,  in  the  other 
schools,  in  which  I  have  been  taught,  the  use  of  the  pistol 
was  an  early  lesson.  You  have  probably  fancied  that  such 
was  not  the  case,  and  that  my  profession — " 

"  Come,  sir  —  will  you  follow  this  path?"  said  Hinkley, 
interrupting  him  impatiently. 

"  All  in  good  time,  sir,  when  you  have  heard  me  out," 
was  the  cool  reply.  "  Now,  sir,"  he  continued,  "  were  you 
to  have  known  that  it  would  be  no  hard  task  for  me  to  mark 
any  button  on  your  vest,  at  any  distance  —  that  I  have  often 
notched  a  smaller  mark,  and  that  I  am  prepared  to  do  so 
again,  it  might  be  that  your  prudence  would  have  tempered 
your  courage — " 

"  I  regret  for  your  sake,"  said  Hinkley,  again  interrupt 
ing  him  with  a  sarcasm,  "  that  I  have  not  brought  with  me 
the  weapon  with  which  my  marks  are  made.  You  seem  to 
have  forgotten  that  I  too  have  some  skill  in  my  poor  way. 
One  would  think,  sir,  that  the  memory  would  not  fail  of 
retaining  what  I  suspect  will  be  impressed  upon  the  skin  for 
some  time  longer." 

"  You  are  evidently  bent  on  fighting,  Mr.  Hinkley,  and  I 
must  gratify  you !" 

"  If  you  please,  sir." 

"  But,  before  doing  so,  I  should  like  to  know  in  what 


264  CHARLEMONT. 

way  I  have  provoked  such  a  feeling  of  hostility  in  your 
mind  ?  I  have  not  sought  to  do  so.  I  have  on  the  contrary, 
striven  to  show  you  my  friendship,  in  part  requital  of  the 
kindness  shown  me  by  your  parents." 

"Do  not  speak  of  them,  if  you.  please." 

"  Ay,  but  I  must.  It  was  at  the  instance  of  your  worthy 
mother  that  I  sought  you  and  strove  to  confer  with  you  on 
the  cause  of  your  evident  unhappiness." 

"  You  were  the  cause." 

"  I?" 

"  Yes  —  you !  Did  I  not  tell  you  then  that  I  hated  you ; 
and  did  you  not  accept  my  defiance  ?" 

"  Yes  ;  but  when  you  saved  my  life  !  — " 

"  It  was  to  spurn  you  —  to  put  stripes  upon  you.  I  tell 
you,  Alfred  Stevens,  I  loathe  you  with  the  loathing  one 
feels  for  a  reptile,  whose  cunning  is  as  detestable  as  his 
sting  is  deadly.  I  loathe  you  from  instinct.  I  felt  this  dis 
like  and  distrust  for  you  from  the  first  moment  that  I  saw 
you.  I  know  not  how,  or  why,  or  in  what  manner,  you  are 
a  villain,  but  I  feel  you  to  be  one !  I  am  convinced  of  it 
as  thoroughly  as  if  I  knew  it.  You  have  wormed  yourself 
into  the  bosom  of  my  family.  You  have  expelled  me  from 
the  affections  of  my  parents  ;  and  not  content  with  this,  you 
have  stolen  to  the  heart  of  the  woman  to  whom  my  life  was 
devoted,  to  have  me  driven  thence  also.  Can  I  do  less 
than  hate  you  ?  Can  I  desire  less  than  your  destruction  ? 
Say,  having  heard  so  much,  whether  you  will  make  it  ne 
cessary  that  I  should  again  lay  my  whip  over  your  shoul 
ders." 

The  face  of  Stevens -became  livid  as  he  listened  to  this 
fierce  and  bitter  speech.  His  eye  watched  that  of  the 
speaker  with  the  glare  of  the  tiger,  as  if  noteful  only  of  the 
moment  when  to  spring.  His  frame  trembled.  His  lip 
quivered  with  the  struggling  rage.  All  his  feeling  of  self- 
superiority  vanished  when  he  listened  to  language  of  so  un 
equivocal  a  character  —  language  which  so  truly  denounced, 


FOOT   TO    FOOT.  „        265 

without  defining,  his  villany.  He  felt,  that  if  the  instinct 
of  the  other  was  indeed  so  keen  and  quick,  then  was  the 
combat  necessary,  and  the  death  of  the  rustic  essential, 
perhaps,  to  his  own  safety.  William  Hinkley  met  his  glance 
with  a  like  fire.  There  was  no  shrinking  of  his  heart  or 
muscles.  Nay,  unlike  his  enemy,  he  felt  a  strange  thrill 
of  pleasure  in  his  veins  as  he  saw  the  effect  which  his 
language  had  produced  on  the  other. 

"Lead  the  way !"  said  Stevens;  "the 'sooner  you  are 
satisfied  the  better." 

"  You  are  very  courteous,  and  I  thank  you,"  replied 
Hinkley,  with  a  subdued  but  sarcastic  smile,  "  you  will 
pardon  me  for  the  seeming  slight,  in  taking  precedence  of 
one  so  superior ;  but  the  case  requires  it.  You  will  please 
to  follow.  I  will  show  you  my  back  no  longer  than  it  seems 
necessary." 

"  Lead  on,  sir  —  lead  on." 

12 


266  CHARLEMONT. 


CHAPTER   XXIII. 

UNEXPECTED   ISSUES. 

WILLIAM  HINKLEY  ascended  the  narrow  path  leading  to 
the  hills  with  an  alacrity  of  heart  which  somewhat  sur 
prised  himself.  The  apprehensions  of  danger,  if  he  felt 
any,  were  not  of  a  kind  to  distress  or  annoy  him,  and  were 
more  than  balanced  by  the  conviction  that  he  had  brought 
his  enemy  within  his  level.  That  feeling  of  power  is  indeed 
a  very  consolatory  one.  It  satisfies  the  ambitious  heart, 
though  death  preys  upon  his  household,  one  by  one  ;  though 
suffering  fevers  his  sleep ;  though  the  hopes  of  his  affection 
wither ;  though  the  loves  and  ties  of  his  youth  decay  and 
vanish.  It  makes  him  careless  of  the  sunshine,  and  heed 
less  of  the  storm.  It  deadens  his  ear  to  the  song  of  birds, 
it  blinds  his  eye  to  the  seduction  of  flowers.  It  makes  him 
fly  from  friendship  and  rush  on  hate.  It  compensates  for 
all  sorts  of  loneliness,  and  it  produces  them.  It  is  a  prince 
ly  despotism;  which,  while  it  robs  its  slave  of  freedom, 
covers  him  with  other  gifts  which  he  learns  to  value  more ; 
which,  binding  him  in  fetters,  makes  him  believe  that  they 
are  sceptres  and  symbols  before  which  all  things  become 
what  he  desires  them.  His  speech  is  changed,  his  very 
nature  perverted,  but  he  acquires  an  "  open  sesame"  by 
their  loss,  and  the  loss  seems  to  his  imagination  an  exceed 
ing  gain.  We  will  not  say  that  William  Hinkley  was  alto 
gether  satisfied  with  his  bargain,  but  in  the  moment  when 
he  stood  confronting  his  enemy  on  the  bald  rock,  with  a 


UNEXPECTED    ISSUES.  267 

deadly  weapon  in  each  hand — When  he  felt  that  he  stood 
foot  to  foot  in  equal  conflict  with  his  foe,  one  whom  he  had 
dragged  down  from  his  pride  of  place,  and  had  compelled 
to  the  fearful  issue  which  made  his  arrogance  quail — in 
tli at  moment,  if  he  did  not  forget,  he  did  not  so  much  feel, 
that  he  had  lost  family  and  friends,  parents  and  love  ;  and 
if  he  felt,  it  was  only  to  induce  that  keener  feeling  of  re 
venge  in  which  even  the  affections  are  apt  to  be  swal 
lowed  up. 

Stevens  looked  in  the  eye  of  the  young  man  and  saw  that 
he  was  dangerous.  He  looked  upon  the  ante-revolutionary 
pistols,  and  saw  that  they  were  dangerous  too,  in  a  double 
sense. 

"  Here  are  pistols,"  he  said,  "  better  suited  to  our  pur 
pose.  You  can  sound  them  and  take  your  choice." 

"  These,"  said  Hinkley,  doggedly,  "  are  as  well  suited  as 
any.  If  you  will,  you  can  take  your  choice  of  mine  ;  but  if 
you  think  yours  superior,  use  them.  These  are  good 
enough  for  me." 

"  But  this  is  out  of  all  usage,"  said  Stevens. 

"  What  matters  it,  Mr.  Stevens  ?  If  you  are  satisfied 
that  yours  are  the  best,  the  advantage  is  with  you.  If  you 
doubt  that  mine  can  kill,  try  them.  I  have  a  faith  in  these 
pistols  which  will  content  me ;  but  we  will  take  one  of 
each,  if  that  will  please  you  better,  and  use  which  we  think 
proper." 

Stevens  expressed  himself  better  pleased  to  keep  his  own. 

"  Suit  yourself  as  to  distance,"  said  Hinkley,  with  all  the 
coolness  of  an  unmixed  salamander.     His  opponent  stepped 
off  ten  paces  with  great  deliberation,  and  William  Hinkley, 
moving  toward  a  fragment  of  the  rock  upon  which  he  had 
placed  his  "  revolutions"  for  the  better  inspection  of  his 
opponent,  possessed  himself  of  the  veterans  and  prepared 
to  take  the  station  which  had  been  assigned  him. 
"  Who  shall  give  the  word  ?"  demanded  Stevens. 
"You  may!"  was  tfie  cool  rejoinder. 


268  CHARLEMONT. 

"  If  I  do,  I  kill  you,"  said  the  other. 

"  I  have  no  fear,  Mr.  Stevens,"  answered  William  Hink- 
ley  with  a  degree  of  phlegm  which  almost  led  Stevens  to 
fancy  he  had  to  deal  with  a  regular  Trojan — "I  have  no 
fear,"  he  continued,"  and  if  you  fancy  you  can  frighten  me 
by  this  sort  of  bragging  you  have  very  much  mistaken  your 
man.  Shoot  when  you  please,  word  or  no  word." 

William  Hinkley  stood  with  his  back  to  the  woods,  his 
face  toward  the  lake  which  spread  itself,  smooth  and  calm 
at  a  little  distance.  He  did  not  perceive  that  his  position 
was  a  disadvantageous  one.  The  tree  behind,  and  that 
beside  him,  rendered  his  body  a  most  conspicuous  mark ; 
while  his  opponent,  standing  with  his  back  to  the  uncov 
ered  rocks  ranged  with  no  other  objects  of  any  prominence. 
Had  he  even  been  sufficiently  practised  in  the  arts  of  the 
duello,  he  would  most  probably  have  been  utterly  regard 
less  of  these  things.  They  would  not  have  influenced  his 
firmness  in  the  slightest  degree.  His  course  was  quite  as 
much  the  result  of  desperation  as  philosophy.  He  felt  him 
self  an  outcast  as  well  from  home  as  from  love,  and  it  mat 
tered  to  him  very  little,  in  the  morbid  excitement  of  his 
present  mind,  whether  he  fell  by  the  hand  of  his  rival,  or 
lived  to  pine  out  a  wearisome  existence,  lonely  and  unin 
spired,  a  gloomy  exile  in  the  bitter  world.  He  waited,  it 
may  be  said,  with  .some  impatience  for  the  fire  of  his  an 
tagonist.  Once  he  saw  the  pistol  of  Stevens  uplifted.  He 
had  one  in  each  hand.  His  own  hung  beside  him.  He 
waited  for  the  shot  of  the  enemy  as  a  signal  when  to  lift 
and  use  his  own  weapon.  But  instead  of  this  he  was  sur 
prised  to  see  him  drop  the  muzzle  of  his  weapon,  and  with 
some  celerity  and  no  small  degree  of  slight  of  hand,  thrust 
the  two  pistols  under  his  coat-skirts.  A  buz  reached  his 
ears  a  moment  after — the  hum  of  voices  —  some  rustling  in 
the  bushes,  which  signified  confusion  in  the  approach  of 
strangers.  He  did  not  wish  to  look  round  as  he  preferred 
keeping  his  eye  on  his  antagonist. 


UNEXPECTED    ISSUES.  269 

"  Shoot !"  lie  exclaimed — "  quickly,  before  we  are  inter 
rupted." 

Before  he  could  receive  any  answer  there  was  a  rush  be 
hind  him  —  he  heard  his  father's  voice,  sudden,  and  in  a 
high  degree  of  fury,  mingled  with  that  of  his  mother  and 
Mr.  Calvert,  as  if  in  expostulation.  From  the  latter  the 
words  distinctly  reached  his  ears,  warning  him  to  beware. 
Such,  also,  was  the  purport  of  his  mother's  cry.  Before 
he  could  turn  and  guard  against  the  unseen  danger,  he  re 
ceived  a  blow  upon  his  head,  the  only  thing  of  which  he 
was  conscious  for  some  time.  He  staggered  and  fell  for 
ward.  He  felt  himself  stunned,  fancied  he  was  shot,  and 
sunk  to  the  ground  in  an  utter  state  of  insensibility. 

The  blow  came  from  his  father's  crab-stick.  It  was  so 
utterly  unexpected  by  the  parties  who  had  attended  old 
Hinkley  to  the  place  of  meeting,  that  no  efforts  were  made 
to  prevent  it.  But  the  mother  of  the  victim  rushed  in  in 
time  to  defeat  the  second  blow,  which  the  father  prepared 
to  inflict,  in  the  moment  when  his  son  was  falling  from  the 
effects  of  the  first.  Grasping  the  coat  skirts  of  her  spouse, 
she  pulled  him  back  with  no  scrupulous  hand,  and.  effectu 
ally  baffled  his  designs  by  bringing  him  down,  though  in  an 
opposite  direction,  to  the  same  level  with  the  youth.  Old 
Hinkley  did  not  bite  the  dust,  but  the  latter  part  of  his 
skull  most  effectually  butted  it ;  and  had  not  his  head  been 
quite  as  tough  as  bis  crab-stick,  the  hurt  might  have  been 
quite  as  severe  as  that  which  the  latter  had  inflicted  on  the 
son. 

The  latter  lay  as  perfectly  quiet  as  if  all  had  been  over 
with  him.  So  much  so,  that  the  impression  became  very 
general  that  such  was  the  case.  Under  this  impression 
the  heart  of  the  mother  spoke  out  in  mingled  screams  of 
lamentation  and  reproach.  She  threw  herself  down  by  the 
side  of  the  youth  and  vainly  attempted  to  stop  the  blood 
which  was  streaming  from  a  deep  gash  on  his  skull.  While 
engaged  in  this  work,  her  apron  and  handkerchief  being 


270  CHARLEMONT. 

both  employed  for  this  purpose,  she  poured  forth  a  torrent 
of  wrath  and  denunciation  against  her  spouse.  She  now 
forgot  all  the  offences  of  the  boy,  and  even  Alfred  Stevens 
came  in  for  his  share  of  the  anger  with  which  she  visit 
ed  the  offence  and  the  offender. 

"  Shame  !  shame  !  you  bloody-minded  man,"  she  cried, 
"  to  slaughter  your  own  son  —  your  only  son  —  to  come 
behind  him  and  knock  him  down  with  a  club  as  if  he  had 
been  an  inhuman  ox  !  You  are  no  husband  of  mine.  He 
sha'n't  own  you  for  a  father.  If  I  had  the  pick,  I'd  choose 
a  thousand  fathers  for  him,  from  here  to  Massassippi,  soon 
er  than  you.  He's  only  too  good  and  too  handsome  to  be 
son  of  yours.  And  for  what  should  you  strike  him?  For 
a  stranger —  a  man  we  never  saw  before.  Shame  on  you  ! 
You  are  a  brute,  a  monster,  William  Hinkley,  and  I'm  done 
with  you  for  ever. 

"  My  poor,  poor  boy !  Look  up,  my  son.  Look  up, 
William.  Open  your  eyes.  It's  your  own  dear  mother 
that  speaks  to  you.  0  my  God !  you've  killed  him  —  he 
will  not  open  his  eyes.  He's  dead,  he's  dead,  he's  dead  !" 

And  truly  it  seemed  so,  for  the  youth  gave  no  sign  of 
consciousness.  She  threw  herself  in  a  screaming  agony 
upon  his  body,  and  gave  herself  up  to  the  unmeasured  de 
spair,  which,  if  a  weakness,  is  at  least  a  sacred  one  in  the 
case  of  a  mother  mourning  her  only  son.  Old  Hinkley  was 
not  without  his  alarms  —  nay,  not  altogether  without  his 
compunctions.  But  he  was  one  of  that  round  head  genus 
whose  self-esteem  is  too  much  at  all  times  for  fear,  or 
shame,  or  sensibility.  Without  seeking  to  assist  the  lad, 
and  ascertain  what  was  his  real  condition,  he  sought  only 
to  justify  himself  for  what  he  had  done  by  repeating  the 
real  and  supposed  offences  of  the  youth.  He  addressed 
himself  in  this  labor  chiefly  to  Mr.  Calvert,  who,  with  quite 
as  much  suffering  as  any  of  the  rest,  had  more  considera 
tion,  and  was  now  busied  in  the  endeavor  to  stanch  the 
blood  and  cleanse  the  wound  of  the  victim. 


UNEXPECTED   ISSUES.  271 

"  lie's  only  got  what  he  deserved,"  exclaimed  the  sullen, 
stubborn  father. 

"  Do  not  speak  so,  Mr.  Hinkley,"  replied  Calvert,  with 
a  sternness  which  was  unusual  with  him ;  "  your  son  may 
have  got  his  death." 

"And  he  deserves  it!"  responded  the  other  doggedly. 

"And  if  he  has,"  continued  Calvert,  "you  are  a  mur 
derer — a  cold-blooded  murderer — and  as  such  will  merit 
and  will  meet  the  halter." 

The  face  of  the  old  man  grew  livid — his  lips  whitened 
with  rage ;  and  he  approached  Calvert,  his  whole  frame 
quivering  with  fury,  and,  shaking  his  hand  threateningly, 
exclaimed : — 

"  Do  you  dare  to  speak  to  me  in  this  manner,  you  miser 
able,  white-headed  pedagogue  —  do  you  dare  ?" 

"  Dare !"  retorted  Calvert,  rising  to  his  feet  with  a  look 
of  majesty  which,  in  an  instant,  awed  the  insolence  of  the 
offender.  Never  had  he  been  faced  by  such  defiance,  so 
fearlessly  and  nobly  expressed. 

"  Dare! — Look  on  me,  and  ask  yourself  whether  I  dare 
or  not.  Approach  me  but  a  step  nigher,  and  even  my  love 
for  your  unfortunate  and  much-abused  but  well-minded  son 
will  not  protect  you.  I  would  chastise  you,  with  all  my 
years  upon  me,  in  spite  of  my  white  head.  Yours,  if  this 
boy  should  die,  will  never  become  white,  or  will  become  so 
suddenly,  as  your  soul  will  wither,  with  its  own  self-torture, 
within  you.  Begone  !  —  keep  back — do  not  approach  me, 
and,  above  all,  do  not  approach  me  with  uplifted  hand,  or, 
by  Heaven,  I  will  fell  you  to  the  earth  as  surely  as  you 
felled  this  boy !  You  have  roused  a  feeling  within  me, 
William  Hinkley,  which  has  slept  for  years.  Do  not  pro 
voke  it  too  far.  Beware  in  season.  You  have  acted  the 
brute  and  the  coward  to  your  son  —  you  could  do  so  with 
impunity  to  him  —  to  me  you  can  not." 

There  was  something  in  this  speech,  from  one  whom  old 
Hinkley  was  accustomed  to  look  upon  as  a  dreaming  book- 


272  CIIARLEilONT. 

worm,  which  goaded  the  tyrannical  father  into  irrepressible 
fury ;  and,  grinding  his  teeth,  without  a  moment's  hesita 
tion  he  advanced,  and  was  actually  about  to  lay  the  crab- 
stick  over  the  shoulders  of  the  speaker :  but  the  latter  was 
as  prompt  as  he  was  fearless.  Before  Ilinkley  could  con 
ceive  his  intention,  he  ha*d  leaped  over  the  still  unconscious 
person  of  William,  and,  flinging  the  old  man  round  with  a 
sudden  jerk,  had  grasped  and  wrested  the  stick  from  his 
hands  with  a  degree  of  activity  and  strength  which  con 
founded  all  the  bystanders,  and  the  subject  of  his  sudden 
exercise  of  manhood  no  less  than  the  rest. 

"  Were  you  treated  justly,"  said  Calvert,  regarding  him 
with  a  look  of  the  loftiest  indignation,  "  you  should  your 
self  receive  a  taste  of  the  cudgel  you  are  so  free  to  use  on 
others.  Let  your  feebleness,  old  man,  be  a  warning  to 
your  arrogance." 

With  these  words,  he  flung  the  crab-stick  into  the  lake, 
old  Hinkley  regarding  him  with  looks  in  which  it  was 
difficult  to  say  whether  mortification  or  fury  had  prepon 
derance. 

"  Go,"  he  continued — "your  son  lives;  but  it  is  God's 
mercy,  and  none  of  yours,  which  has  spared  his  life.  You 
will  live,  I  hope,  to  repent  of  your  cruelty  and  injustice  to 
him  ;  to  repent  of  having  shown  a  preference  to  a  stranger, 
so  blind  as  that  which  has  moved  you  to  attempt  the  life  of 
one  of  the  most  gentle  lads  in  the  whole  country." 

"  And  did  he  not  come  here  to  murder  the  stranger  ?  did 
we  not  find  him  even  now  with  pistol  ready  to  murder 
Brother  Stevens  ?  See  the  pistols  now  in  his  hands — my 
father's  pistols.  We  came  not  a  minute  too  soon.  But  for 
niy  blow,  he  had  been  a  murderer." 

Such  was  the  justification  which  old  Hinkley  now  offered 
for  what  he  had  done. 

"  I  am  no  advocate  for  duelling,"  said  Calvert,  "  but  I 
believe  that  your  son  came  with  the  stranger  for  this  pur 
pose,  and  not  to  murder  him." 


4  UNEXPECTED   ISSUES.  273 

"  No,  no !  do  you  not  see  that  Brother  Stevens  has  no 
pistols?  Did  we  not  see  him  trying  to  escape  —  walking 
off — walking  almost  over  the  rocks  to  get  out  of  the  way  ?" 

Calvert  comprehended  the  matter  much  more  clearly. 

"  Speak,  sir !"  he  said  to  Stevens,  "  did  you  not  come 
prepared  to  defend  yourself?" 

"You  see  me  as  I  am,"  said  Stevens,  showing  his  empty 
hands. 

Calvert  looked  at  him  with  searching  eye. 

"  I  understand  you,  sir,"  he  said,  with  an  expression  not 
to  be  mistaken  ;  "  I  understand  you  now.  This  lad  I  know. 
He  could  not  be  a  murderer.  He  could  not  take  any  man 
at  advantage.  If  you  do  not  know  the  fact,  Mr.  Stevens, 
I  can  assure  you  that  your  life  was  perfectly  secure  from 
his  weapon,  so  long  as  his  remained  equally  unendangered. 
The  sight  of  that  lake,  from  which  he  rescued  you  but  a  few 
days  ago,  should  sufficiently  have  persuaded  you  of  this." 

Stevens  muttered  something,  the  purport  of  which  was, 
that  "  he  did  not  believe  the  young  man  intended  to  murder 
him." 

"  Did  he  not  send  you  a  challenge  ?" 

"  No  !"  said  old  Hinkley ;  "  he  sent  him  a  begging  note, 
promising  atonement  and  repentance." 

"  Will  you  let  me  see  that  note  ?"  said  Calvert,  addres 
sing  Stevens. 

"  I  have  it  not — I  destroyed  it,"  said  Stevens  with  some 
haste.  Calvert  said  no  more,  but  he  looked  plainly  enough 
his  suspicions.  He  now  gave  his  attention  to  William 
Hinkley,  whose  mother,  while  this  scene  was  in  progress, 
had  been  occupied,  as  Calvert  had  begun,  in  stancjiing  the 
blood,  and  trimming  with  her  scissors,  which  were  fortu 
nately  at  her  girdle,  the  hair  from  the  wound.  The  son, 
meanwhile,  had  wakened  to  consciousness.  He  had  been 
stunned  but  not  severely  injured  by  the  blow,  and,  with  the 
promptitude  of  a  border-dame,  Mrs.  Hinkley,  hurrying  to 
a  pine-tree,  had  gathered  enough  of  its  resin,  which,  spread 

12* 


274  CHARLEMONT. 

upon  a  fragment  of  her  cotton  apron,  and  applied  to  tho 
hurt,  proved  a  very  fair  substitute  for  adhesive  plaster. 
The  youth  rose  to  his  feet,  still  retaining  the  pistols  in  his 
grasp.  His  looks  were  heavy  from  the  stupor  which  still 
continued,  but  kindled  into  instant  intelligence  when  ho 
caught  sight  of  Stevens  and  his  father. 

"  Go  home,  sir !"  said  the  latter,  waving  his  hand  in  the 
prescribed  direction. 

"  Never !"  was  the  reply  of  the  young  man,  firmly  ex 
pressed  ;  "  never,  sir,  if  I  never  have  a  home  !" 

"You  shall  always  have  a  home,  William,  while  I  have 
one,"  said  Mr.  Calvert. 

"  What!  you  encourage  my  son  in  rebellion?  you  teach 
him  to  fly  in  the  face  of  his  father?''  shouted  the  old  man. 

"  No,  sir ;  I  only  offer  him  a  shelter  from  tyranny,  a  place 
of  refuge  from  persecution.  When  you  learn  the  duties 
and  the  feelings  of  a  father,  it  will  be  time  enough  to  assert 
the  rights  of  one.  I  do  not  think  him  safe  in  your  house 
against  your  vindictiveness  and  brutality.  He  is,  however, 
of  full  age,  and  can  determine  for  himself.'' 

"'He  is  not  of  age,  and  will  not  be  till  July." 

"  It  matters  not.  He  is  more  near  the  years  of  discre 
tion  than  his  father ;  and,  judging  him  to  be  in  some  danger 
in  your  house,  as  a  man  and  as  a  magistrate  I  offer  him  the 
protection  of  mine.  Come  home  with  me,  William." 

"  Let  him  go,  if  he  pleases — go  to  the  d — 1 !  He  who 
honors  not  his  father,  says  the  Scriptures  —  what  says  the 
passage,  Brother  Stevens  —  does  it  not  say  that  he  who 
honors  not  his  father  is  in  danger  of  hell-fire  ?" 

"  Not  exactly,  I  believe,"  said  the  other. 

"  Matters  not,  matters  not! — the  meaning  is  very  much 
the  same." 

"  Oh,  my  son,"  said  the  mother,  clinging  to  his  neck, 
"  will  you,  indeed,  desert  me  ?  can  you  leave  me  in  rny  old 
age  ?  I  have  none,  none  but  you !  You  know  how  I  have 
loved — you  know  I  will  always  love  you." 


UNEXPECTED    ISSUES.  275 

"  And  I  love  you,  mother — and  love  him  too,  though  he 
treats  me  as  an  outcast — I  will  always  love  you,  but  I  will 
never  more  enter  my  father's  dwelling.  He  has  degraded 
me  with  his  whip — he  has  attempted  my  life  with  his  blud 
geon.  I  forgive  him,  but  will  never  expose  myself  again 
to  his  cruelties  or  indignities.  You  will  always  find  me  a 
son,  and  a  dutiful  one,  in  all  other  respects. " 

lie  turned  away  with  Mr.  Calvert,  and  slowly  proceeded 
down  the  pathway  by  which  he  had  approached  the  emi 
nence.  He  gave  Stevens  a  significant  look  as  he  passed 
him,  and  lifted  one  of  the  pistols  which  he  still  carried  in 
his  hands,  in  a  manner  to  make  evident  his  meaning.  The 
other  smiled  and  turned  off  with  the  group,  who  proceeded 
by  the  route  along  the  hills,  but  the  last  words  of  the 
mother,  subdued  by  sobs,  still  came  to  the  ears  of  the 
youth : — 

"  Oh,  my  son,  come  home  !  come  home !" 

"No!  no!  I  have  no  home — no  home,  mother!"  mut 
tered  the  young  man,  as  if  he  thought  the  half-stifled  re 
sponse  could  reach  the  ears  of  the  complaining  woman. 

"  No  home  !  no  hope  !"  he  continued — "  I  am  desolate." 

"  Not  so,  my  son.  God  is  our  home ;  God  is  our  com 
panion  ;  our  strength,  our  preserver !  Living  and  loving, 
manfully  striving  and  working  out  our  toils  for  deliverance, 
we  are  neither  homeless,  nor  hopeless ;  neither  strength- 
less,  nor  fatherless  ;  wanting  neither  in  substance  nor  com 
panion.  This  is  a  sharp  lesson,  perhaps,  but  a  necessary 
one.  It  will  give  you  that  courage,  of  the  great  value  of 
which  I  spoke  to  you  but  a  few  days  ago.  Come  with 
me  to  my  home ;  it  shall  be  yours  until  you  can  find  a 
better." 

"  I  thank  you  —  oh !  how  much  I  thank  you.  It  may  be 
all  as  you  say,  but  I  feel  very,  very  miserable." 


276  CHARLEMONT. 


CHAPTER   XXIV. 

EXILE. 

THE  artist  in  the  moral  world  must  be  very  careful  not 
to  suffer  his  nice  sense  of  retributive  justice,  to  get  so 
much  the  better  of  his  judgment,  as  an  artist,  as  to  make 
him  forgetful  of  human  probabilities,  and  the  superior  duty 
of  preparing  the  mind  of  the  young  reader  by  sterling  ex 
amples  of  patience  and  protracted  reward,  to  bear  up  man 
fully  against  injustice,  and  not  to  despond  because  his 
rewards  are  slow.  It  would  be  very  easy  for  an  author  to 
make  everybody  good,  or,  if  any  were  bad,  to  dismiss 
them,  out  of  hand,  to  purgatory  and  places  even  worse. 
But  it  would  be  a  thankless  toil  to  read  the  writings  of 
such  an  author.  His  characters  would  fail  in  vraisem- 
blance,  and  his  incidents  would  lack  in  interest.  The 
world  is  a  sort  of  vast  moral  lazar-house,  in  which  most 
have  sores,  either  of  greater  or  less  degree  of  virulence. 
Some  are  nurses,  and  doctors,  and  guardians ;  and  these 
are  necessarily  free  from  the  diseases  to  which  they  minis 
ter.  Some,  though  not  many,  are  entirely  incurable  ;  many 
labor  for  years  in  pain,  and  when  dismissed,  still  hobble 
along  feebly,  bearing  the  proofs  of  their  trials  in  ugly 
seams  and  blotches,  contracted  limbs,  and  pale,  haggard 
features.  Others  get  off  with  a  shorter  and  less  severe 
probation.  None  are  free  from  taint,  and  those  who  are 
the  most  free,  are  not  always  the  greatest  favorites  with 
fortune. 


EXILE.  277 

We  are  speaking  of  the  moral  world,  good  reader.  We 
simply  borrow  an  illustration  from  the  physical.  Our  in 
terest  in  one  another  is  very  much  derived  from  our  knowl 
edge  of  each  other's  infirmities ;  and  it  may  be  remarked, 
passingly,  that  this  interest  is  productive  of  very  excellent 
philosophical  temper,  since  it  enables  us  to  bear  the  worst 
misfortunes  of  our  best  friends  with  the  most  amazing  forti 
tude.  It  is  a  frequent  error  with  the  reader  of  a  book — 
losing  sight  of  these  facts — to  expect  that  justice  will 
always  be  done  on  the  instant.  He  will  suffer  no  delay  in 
the  book,  though  he  sees  that  this  delay  of  justice  is  one  of 
the  most  decided  of  all  the  moral  certainties  whether  in  life 
or  law.  He  does  not  wish  to  see  the  person  in  whom  the 
author  makes  him  interested,  perish  in  youth — die  of 
broken  heart  or  more  rapid  disaster ;  and  if  he  could  be 
permitted  to  interfere,  the  bullet  or  the  knife  of  the  assassin 
would  be  arrested  at  the  proper  moment  and  always  turned 
against  the  bosom  of  the  wrong-doer. 

This  is  a  very  commendable  state  of  feeling,  and  when 
ever  it  occurs,  it  clearly  shows  that  the  author  is  going 
right  in  his  vocation.  It  proves  him  to  be  a  human  author, 
which  is  something  better  than  being  a  mere,  dry,  moral 
one.  But  he  would  neither  be  a  human  nor  a  moral  author 
were  he  to  comply  with  the  desires  of  such  gentle  readers, 
and,  to  satisfy  their  sympathies,  arrest  the  progress  of 
events.  The  fates  must  have  their  way,  in  the  book  as  in 
the  lazar-house  ;  and  the  persons  of  his  drama  must  endure 
their  sores  and  sufferings  with  what  philosophy  they  may, 
until,  under  the  hands  of  that  great  physician,  fortune,  they 
receive  an  honorable  discharge  or  otherwise. 

Were  it  with  him,  our  young  friend,  William  Hinkley, 
who  is  really  a  clever  fellow,  should  not  only  be  received  to 
favor  with  all  parties,  but  such  should  never  have  fallen  from 
favor  in  the  minds  of  any.  His  father  should  become  soon 
repentant,  and  having  convicted  Stevens  of  his  falsehood 
and  hypocrisy,  he  should  be  rewarded  with  the  hand  of  tho 


278  CHARLEMONT. 

woman  to  whom  his  young  heart  is  so  devoted.  Such,  per 
haps,  would  be  the  universal  wish  with  our  readers ;  but 
would  this  be  fortunate  for  William  Hinkley  ?  Our  vener 
able  friend  and  his,  Mr.  Calvert,  has  a  very  different 
opinion.  He  says  : — 

"  This  young  man  is  not  only  a  worthy  young  man,  but 
he  is  one,  naturally  of  very  vigorous  intellect.  He  is  of 
earnest,  impassioned  temperament,  full,  of  enthusiasm  and 
imagination ;  fitted  for  work — great  work — public  work  — 
head  work — the  noblest  kind  of  work.  He  will  be  a  great 
lawyer  —  perhaps  a  great  statesman — if  he  addresses  him 
self  at  once,  manfully,  to  his  tasks  ;  but  he  will  not  address 
himself  to  these  tasks  while  he  pursues  the  rusting  and 
mind-destroying  life  of  a  country  village.  Give  him  the 
object  of  his  present  desire  and  you  deprive  him  of  all 
motive  for  exertion.  Give  him  the  woman  he  seeks  and 
you  probably  deprive  him  even  of  the  degree  of  quiet  which 
the  country  village  affords.  He  would  forfeit  happiness 
without  finding  strength.  Force  him  to  the  use  of  his  tools 
and  he  builds  himself  fame  and  fortune." 

Calvert  was  really  not  sorry  that  William  Hinkley's 
treatment  had  been  so  harsh.  He  sympathized,  it  is  true, 
in  his  sufferings,  but  he  was  not  blind  to  their  probable 
advantages ;  and  he  positively  rejoiced  in  his  rejection  by 
Margaret  Cooper. 

It  was  some  four  or  five  days  after  the  events  with  which 
our  last  chapter  was  closed,  that  the  old  man  and  his  young 
friend  were  to  be  seen  sitting  together,  under  the  shade  of 
the  venerable  tree  where  we  have  met  them  before.  They 
had  conferred  together  seriously,  and  finally  with  agreeing 
minds,  on  the  several  topics  which  have  been  adverted  to 
in  the  preceding  paragraph.  William  Hinkley  had  become 
convinced  that  it  was  equally  the  policy  of  his  mind  and 
heart  to  leave  Charlemont.  He  was  not  so  well  satisfied, 
however,  as  was  the  case  with  Mr.  Calvert,  that  the  loss 
of  Margaret  Cooper  was  his  exceeding  gain.  When  did 


EXILE.  279 

young  lover  come  to  such  a  conclusion  ?  Not,  certainly, 
while  he  was  young.  But  when  was  young  lover  wise? 
Though  a  discontent,  William  Hinkley  was  not,  however, 
soured  nor  despairing  from  the  denial  of  his  hopes.  He 
had  resources  of  thought  and  spirit  never  tested  before,  of 
the  possession  of  which  he,  himself,  knew  nothing.  They 
were  to  be  brought  into  use  and  made  valuable  only  by  these 
very  denials ;  by  the  baffling  of  his  hope ;  by  the  provoca 
tion  of  his  strength. 

His  resolution  grew  rapidly  in  consequence  of  his  disap 
pointments.  He  was  now  prepared  to  meet  the  wishes  of 
his  venerable  and  wise  preceptor — to  grapple  stoutly  with 
the  masters  of  the  law ;  and,  keeping  his  heart  in.  restraint, 
if  not  absolute  abeyance,  to  do  that  justice  to  his  head, 
which,  according  to  the  opinion  of  Mr.  Calvert,  it  well- 
deserved  if  hitherto  it  had  not  demanded  it.  But  to  pursue 
his  studies  as  well  as  his  practice,  he  was  to  leave  Charle- 
mont.  How  was  this  to  be  done — where  was  he  to  go — 
by  what  means?  A  horse,  saddle,  and  bridle — a  few 
books  and  the  ante-revolutionary  pistols  of  his  grandsire, 
which  recent  circumstances  seemed  to  have  endeared  to 
him,  were  all  his  available  property.  His  poverty  was  an 
estoppel,  at  the  outset,  to  his  own  reflections ;  and  think 
ing  of  this  difficulty  he  turned  with  a  blank  visage  to  his 
friend. 

The  old  man  seemed  to  enter  into  and  imagine  his 
thoughts.  He  did  not  wait  to  be  reminded,  by  the  halting 
speech  of  the  youth,  of  the  one  subject  from  which  the 
latter  shrunk  to  speak. 

"  The  next  thing,  my  son,"  said  he,  "  is  the  necessary 
means.  Happily,  in  the  case  of  one  so  prudent  and  tem 
perate  as  yourself,  you  will  not  need  much.  Food  and 
clothing,  and  a  small  sum,  annually,  for  contingencies,  will 
be  your  chief  expense ;  and  this,  I  am  fortunately  able  to 
provide.  I  am  not  a  rich  man,  my  son  ;  but  economy  and 
temperance,  with  industry,  have  given  me  enough,  and  to 


280  CHARLEMONT. 

spare.  It  is  long  since  I  had  resolved  that  all  I  have 
should  be  yours ;  and  I  had  laid  aside  small  sums  from 
time  to  time,  intending  them  for  an  occasion  like  the  pres 
ent,  which  I  felt  sure  would  at  length  arrive.  I  am  re 
joiced  that  my  foresight  should  have  begun  in  time,  since 
it  enables  me  to  meet  the  necessity  promptly,  and  to  inter 
pose  myself  at  the  moment  when  you  most  need  counsel 
and  assistance." 

"  Oh,  my  friend,  my  kind  generous  friend,  how  it  shames 
me  for  my  own  father  to  hear  you  speak  thus !" 

The  youth  caught  the  hands  of  his  benefactor,  and  the 
hot  tears  fell  from  his  eyes  upon  them,  while  he  fervently 
bent  to  kiss  them. 

"  Your  father  is  a  good  but  rough  man,  William,  who 
will  come  to  his  senses  in  good  time.  Men  of  his  educa 
tion —  governed  as  he  is  by  the  mistake  which  so  commonly 
confounds  God  with  his  self-constituted  representative,  reli 
gion  with  its  professor — will  err,  and  can  not  be  reasoned 
out  of  their  errors.  It  is  the  unceasing  operation  of  time 
which  can  alone  teach  them  a  knowledge  of  the  truth.  You 
must  not  think  too  hardly  of  your  father,  who  does  not 
love  you  the  less  because  he  fancies  you  are  his  particular 
property,  with  whom  he  may  do  what  he  pleases.  As  for 
what  I  have  done,  and  am  disposed  to  do  for  you,  let  that 
not  become  burdensome  to  your  gratitude.  In  some  re 
spects  you  have  been  a  son  to  me,  and  I  send  you  from  me 
with  the  same  reluctance  which  a  father  would  feel  in  the 
like  circumstances.  You  have  been  my  companion,  you 
have  helped  to  cheer  my  solitude ;  and  I  have  learned  to 
look  on  the  progress  of  your  mind  with  the  interest  of  the 
philosopher  who  pursues  a  favorite  experiment.  In  educa 
ting  you,  I  have  attempted  an  experiment  which  I  should 
be  sorry  to  see  fail.  I  do  not  think  now  that  it  will  fail. 
I  think  you  will  do  yourself  and  me  ample  justice.  If  I 
have  had  my  doubts,  they  were  of  your  courage,  not  your 
talent.  If  you  have  a  weakness,  it  is  because  of  a  defi- 


EXILE.  281 

ciency  of  self-esteem — a  tendency  to  self-disparagement. 
A  little  more  actual  struggle  with  the  world,  and  an  utter 
withdrawal  from  those  helps  and  hands  which  in  a  youth's 
own  home  are  very  apt  to  be  constantly  employed  to  keep 
him  from  falling,  and  to  save  him  from  the  consequences 
of  his  fall,  and  I  do  not  despair  of  seeing  you  acquire  that 
necessary  moral  hardihood  which  will  enable  you  to  think 
freely,  and  to  make  your  mind  give  a  fair  utterance  to  the 
properties  which  are  in  it.  When  this  is  done,  I  have 
every  hope  of  you.  You  will  rise  to  eminence  in  your  pro 
fession.  I  know,  my  son,  that  you  will  do  me  honor." 

"  Ah,  sir,  I  am  afraid  you  overrate  my  abilities.  I  have 
no  consciousness  of  any  such  resources  as  you  suppose  me 
to  possess." 

"  It  is  here  that  your  deficiency  speaks  out.  Be  bold, 
my  son — be  bold,  bolder,  boldest.  I  would  not  have  you 
presumptuous,  but  there  is  a  courage,  short  of  presumption, 
which  is  only  a  just  confidence  in  one's  energies  and  moral 
determination.  This  you  will  soon  form,  if,  looking  around 
you  and  into  the  performances  of  others,  you  see  how  easy 
they  are,  and  how  far  inferior  they  are  to  your  own  ideas 
of  what  excellence  should  be.  Do  not  look  into  yourself 
for  your  standards.  I  have  perhaps  erred  in  making  these 
too  high.  Look  out  from  yourself — look  into  others — 
analyze  the  properties  of  others ;  and,  in  attempting,  seek 
only  to  meet  the  exigencies  of  the  occasion,  without  asking 
what  a  great  mind  might  effect  beyond  it.  Your  heart  will 
fail  you  always  if  your  beau  ideal  is  for  ever  present  to 
your  mind." 

"  I  will  try,  sir.  My  tasks  are  before  me,  and  I  know  it 
is  full  time  that  I  should  discard  my  boyhood.  I  will  go 
to  work  with  industry,  and  will  endeavor  not  to  disappoint 
your  confidence  ;  but  I  must  confess,  sir,  I  have  very  little 
in  myself." 

"  If  you  will  work  seriously,  William,  my  faith  is  in  this 
very  humility.  A  man  knowing  his  own  weakness,  and  work- 


282  CHARLEMONT. 

ing  to  be  strong,  can  not  fail.  He  must  achieve  something 
more  than  he  strives  for." 

"  You  make  me  strong  as  I  hear  you,  sir.  But  I  have 
one  request  to  make,  sir.  I  have  a  favor  to  ask,  sir,  which 
will  make  me  almost  happy  if  you  grant  it — which  will  at 
least  reconcile  me  to  receive  your  favors,  and  to  feel  them 
less  oppressively." 

"  What  is  that,  William  ?  You  know,  my  son,  there  are 
few  things  which  I  could  refuse  you." 

"  It  is  that  /  may  be  your  son ;  that  I  may  call  you  father, 
and  bear  henceforward  your  name.  If  you  adopt  me,  rear 
me,  teach  me,  provide  me  with  the  means  of  education  and 
life,  and  do  for  me  what  a  father  should  have  done,  you 
are  substantially  more  than  my  father  to  me.  Let  me  bear 
your  name.  I  shall  be  proud  of  it,  sir.  I  will  not  dis 
grace  it — nay,  more,  it  will  strengthen  me  in  my  desire 
to  do  it  and  myself  honor.  When  I  hear  it  spoken,  it 
will  remind  me  of  my  equal  obligations  to  you  and  to 
myself." 

"  But  this,  my  son,  is  a  wrong  done  to  your  own  fa 
ther." 

"  Alas !  he  will  not  feel  it  such." 

The  old  man  shook  his  head. 

"  You  speak  now  with  a  feeling  of  anger,  William.  The 
treatment  of  your  father  rankles  in  your  mind." 

"  No,  sir,  no  !  I  freely  forgive  him.  I  have  no  reference 
to  him  in  the  prayer  I  mtike.  My  purpose  is  simply  what 
I  declare.  Your  name  will  remind  me  of  your  counsels, 
will  increase  my  obligation  to  pursue  them,  will  strengthen 
me  in  my  determination,  will  be  to  me  a  fond  monitor  in 
your  place.  Oh,  sir,  do  not  deny  me !  You  have  shown 
me  the  affections  of  a  father — let  me,  I  entreat  you,  bear 
the  name  of  your  son !" 

The  youth  flung  his  arms  about  the  old  man's  neck,  and 
wept  with  a  gush  of  fondness  which  the  venerable  sire  could 
not  withstand.  He  was  deeply  touched  :  his  lips  quivered ; 


EXILE.  283 

his  eyes  thrilled  and  throbbed.  In  vain  did  he  strive  to 
resist  the  impulse.  He  gave  him  tear  for  tear. 

"  My  son,  you  have  unmanned  me." 

"Ah,  my  father,  I  can  not  regret,  since,  in  doing  so,  I 
have  strengthened  my  own  manhood." 

"  If  it  have  this  effect,  William,  I  shall  not  regret  my 
own  weakness.  There  is  a  bird,  you  are  aware,  of  which 
it  is  fabled  that  it  nourishes  its  young  by  the  blood  of  its 
own  bosom,  which  it  wounds  for  this  purpose.  Believe  me, 
my  dear  boy,  I  am  not  unwilling  to  be  this  bird  for  your 
sake.  If  to  feel  for  you  as  the  fondest  of  fathers  can  give 
ma  the  rights  of  one,  then  are  you  most  certainly  my  son — 
my  son  !" 

Long,  and  fond,  and  sweet,  was  their  embrace.  For  a 
full  hour,  but  few  words,  and  those  of  a  mournful  tender 
ness,  were  exchanged  between  the  parties.  But  the  scene 
and  the  struggle  were  drawing  nigh  their  close.  This  was 
the  day  when  they  were  to  separate.  It  had  been  arranged 
that  William  Hinkley,  or  as  he  now  calls  himself,  William 
Calvert,  was  to  go  into  the  world.  The  old  man  had  re 
called  for  his  sake,  many  of  the  memories  and  associations 
of  his  youth.  He  had  revived  that  period — in  his  case 
one  of  equal  bitterness  and  pleasure — when,  a  youth  like 
him  he  was  about  to  send  forth,  he  had  been  the  ardent  stu 
dent  in  a  profession  whose  honors  he  had  so  sadly  failed  to 
reap.  In  this  profession  he  was  then  fortunate  in  having 
many  sterling  friends.  Some  of  these  were  still  so.  In 
withdrawing  from  society,  he  had  not  withdrawn  from  all 
commerce  with  a  select  and  sacred  few  ;  and  to  the  friendly 
counsel  and  protection  of  these  he  now  deputed  the  pater 
nal  trusts  which  had  been  just  so  solemnly  surrendered  to 
himself.  There  were  long  and  earnest  appeals  written  to 
many  noble  associates  —  men  who  had  won  great  names  by 
dint  of  honorable  struggle  in  those  fields  into  which  the 
feebler  temper  of  Mr.  Calvert  did  not  permit  him  to  pene 
trate.  Some  of  these  letters  bore  for  their  superscriptions 


284  CHARLEMONT. 

such  names  as  the  Clays,  the  Crittendens,  and  the  Metcalfs 
—  the  strong  men,  not  merely  of  Kentucky,  but  of  the  Un 
ion.  The  good  old  man  sighed  as  he  read  them  over,  sepa 
rately,  to  his  young  companion. 

"  Once  I  stood  with  them,  and  like  them — not  the  mean 
est  among  them — nay,  beloved  by  them  as  an  associate, 
and  recognised  as  a  competitor.  But  they  are  here  — 
strong,  high,  glorious,  in  the  eye  of  the  nation — and  I  am 
nothing — a  poor  white-headed  pedagogue  in  the  obscurest 
regions  of  Kentucky.  Oh,  my  son,  remember  this,  and  be 
strong !  Beware  of  that  weakness,  the  offspring  of  a  mis 
erable  vanity,  which,  claiming  too  much  for  itself,  can  be 
stow  nothing  upon  others.  Strive  only  to  meet  the  exi 
gency,  and  you  will  do  more — you  will  pass  beyond  it. 
Ask  not  what  your  fame  requires — the  poor  fame  of  a  soli 
tary  man  struggling  like  an  atom  in  the  bosom  of  the  great 
struggling  world — ask  only  what  is  due  to  the  task  which 
you  have  assumed,  and  labor  to  do  that.  This  is  the  sim 
ple,  small  secret,  but  be  sure  it  is  the  one  which  is  of  more 
importance  than  all  beside." 

The  departure  of  William  Hinkley  from  his  native  vil 
lage  was  kept  a  profound  secret  from  all  persons  except  his 
adopted  father  and  his  bosom  friend  and  cousin,  Fisherman 
Ned.  We  have  lost  sight  of  this  young  man  for  several 
pages,  and,  in  justice  equally  to  the  reader  and  himself,  it 
is  necessary  that  we  should  hurriedly  retrace  our  progress, 
at  least  so  far  as  concerns  his.  We  left  him,  if  we  remem 
ber,  having  driven  Alfred  Stevens  from  his  purpose,  riding 
on  alone,  really  with  no  other  aim  than  to  give  circulation 
to  his  limbs  and  fancies.  His  ride,  if  we  are  to  believe  his 
random  but  significant  words,  and  his  very  knowing  looks, 
was  not  without  its  results.  He  had  certainly  made  some 
discoveries  —  at  least  he  thought  and  said  so  ;  but,  in  truth, 
we  believe  these  amounted  to  nothing  more  than  some  plau 
sible  conjectures  as  to  the  route  which  Alfred  Stevens  was 
in  the  habit  of  pursuing,  on  those  excursions,  in  which  the 


EXILE.  285 

neighbors  were  disposed  to  think  that  there  was  something 
very  mysterious.  He  certainly  had  jumped  to  the  con 
clusion  that,  on  such  occasions,  the  journey  of  Stevens 
was  prolonged  to  Ellisland ;  and,  as  such  a  ride  was  too 
long  for  one  of  mere  pleasure  and  exercise,  the  next  con 
clusion  was,  that  such  a  journey  had  always  some  business 
in  it. 

Now,  a  business  that  calls  for  so  much  secrecy,  in  a  young 
student  of  theology,  was  certainly  one  that  could  have  very 
little  relation  to  the  church.  So  far  as  Ned  Hinkley  knew 
anything  of  the  Decalogue  it  could  not  well  relate  to  that. 
There  was  nothing  in  St.  Paul  that  required  him  to  travel 
post  to  Ellisland  ;  though  a  voyage  to  Tarsus  might  be  jus 
tified  by  the  "authority  of  that  apostle ;  and  the  whole  pro 
ceeding,  therefore,  appeared  to  be  a  mystery  in  which  gos- 
pelling  had  very  little  to  do.  Very  naturally,  having  ar 
rived  at  this  conclusion,  Ned  Hinkley  jumped  to  another. 
If  the  saints  have  nothing  to  do  with  this  journey  of  Alfred 
Stevens,  the  sinners  must  have.  It  meant  mischief — it 
was  a  device  of  Satan ;  and  the  matter  seemed  so  clearly 
made  out  to  his  own  mind,  that  he  returned  homo  with  the 
further  conviction,  which  was  equally  natural  and  far  more 
easily  arrived  at,  that  he  was  now  bound  by  religion,  as  he 
had  previously  been  impelled  by  instinct,  to  give  Stevens 
"  a  regular  licking  the  very  first  chance  that  offered."  Still, 
though  determined  on  this  measure,  he  was  not  unmindful 
of  the  necessity  of  making  other  discoveries ;  and  he  re 
turned  to  Charlemont  with  a  countenance  big  with  impor 
tance  and  almost  black  with  mystery. 

But  the  events  which  had  taken  place  in  his  absence,  and 
which  we  have  already  related,  almost  put  his  own  peculiar 
purposes  out  of  his  mind.  That  William  Hinkley  should 
have  cow  skinned  Stevens  would  have  been  much  more  grat 
ifying  to  him  could  he  have  been  present ;  and  he  was  al 
most  disposed  to  join  with  the  rest  in  their  outcry  against 
this  sacrilegious  proceeding,  for  the  simple  reason,  that  it 


286  CHARLEMONT. 

somewhat  anticipated  his  own  rigorous  intentions  to  the 
same  effect.  He  was  not  less  dissatisfied  with  the  next 
attempt  for  two  reasons. 

"  You  might  have  known,  Bill,  that  a  parson  won't  fight 
with  pistols.  You  might  have  persuaded  him  to  fist  or 
cudgel,  to  a  fair  up  and  down,  hand  over,  fight!  That's 
not  so  criminal,  they  think.  I  heard  once  of  Brother  John 
Cross,  himself  trying  a  cudgel  bout  with  another  parson 
down  in  Mississippi,  because  he  took  the  same  text  out  of 
his  mouth,  and  preached  it  over  the  very  same  day,  with 
contrary  reason.  Everybody  said  that  John  Cross  served 
him  right,  and  nobody  blamed  either.  But  they  would  have 
done  so  if  pistols  had  been  used.  You  can't  expect  par 
sons  or  students  of  religion  to  fight  with  firearms.  Swords, 
now,  they  think  justifiable,  for  St.  Peter  used  them ;  but 
we  read  nowhere  in  Old  or  New  Testament  of  their  using 
guns,  pistols,  or  rifles." 

"  But  he  consented  to  fight,  and  brought  his  own  pistols, 
Ned  ?" 

"  Why,  then,  didn't  you  fight  ?  That's  the  next  thing  I 
blame  you  for — that,  when  you  were  both  ready,  and  had 
the  puppies  in  your  hands,  you  should  have  stood  looking 
at  each  other  without  taking  a  crack.  By  jingo,  had  there 
been  fifty  fathers  and  mothers  in  the  bush,  I'd  have  had  a 
crack  at  him.  No,  I  blame  you,  William  —  I  can't  help  it. 
You  didn't  do  right.  Oh  !  if  you  had  only  waited,  for  me, 
and  let  me  have  fixed  it,  how  finely  we  would  have  man 
aged.  What  then,  if  your  father  had  burst  in,  it  was  only 
shifting  the  barkers  from  your  hands  to  mine.  I'd  havo 
banged  at  him,  though  John  Cross  himself,  and  all  his  flock, 
stood  by  and  kneed  it  to  prevent  me.  They  might  have 
prayed  to  all  eternity  without  stopping  me,  I  tell  you." 

William  Hinkley  muttered  something  about  the  more  im 
pressive  sort  of  procedure  which  his  father  had  resorted  to, 
and  a  little  soreness  about  the  parietal  bones  just  at  that 
moment  giving  a  quick  impatient  air  to  his  manner,  had 


EXILE.  287 

the  effect  of  putting  an  end  to  all  further  discussion  of  this 
topic.  Fisherman  Ned  concluded  with  a  brief  assurance, 
meant  as  consolation,  that,  when  he  took  up  the  cudgels, 
his  cousin  need  make  himself  perfectly  easy  with  the  con 
viction  that  he  would  balance  both  accounts  very  effectually. 
He  had  previously  exhorted  William  to  renew  the  attempt, 
though  with  different  weapons,  to  bring  his  enemy  into  the 
field ;  but  against  this  attempt  Mr.  Calvert  had  already 
impressively  enjoined  him ;  exacting  from  him  a  promise 
that  he  would  not  seek  Stevens,  and  would  simply  abide 
any  call  for  satisfaction  which  the  latter  might  make.  The 
worthy  old  man  was  well  assured  that  in  Stevens's  situation 
there  was  very  little  likelihood  of  a  summons  to  the  field 
from  him. 

Still,  William  Hinkley  did  not  deem  it  becoming  in  him 
to  leave  the  ground  for  several  days,  even  after  his  prepa 
rations  for  departure  were  complete.  He  loitered  in  the 
neighborhood,  showed  himself  frequently  to  his  enemy,  and, 
on  some  of  these  occasions,  was  subjected  to  the  mortifica 
tion  of  beholding  the  latter  on  his  way  to  the  house  of  Mar 
garet  Cooper,  with  whom,  a  few  moments  after,  he  might 
be  seen  in  lonely  rambles  by  the  lake-side  and  in  the  wood. 
William  had  conquered  his  hopes  from  this  quarter,  but  he 
vainly  endeavored  to  suppress  his  pangs. 

At  length  the  morning  came  for  his  departure.  He  had 
seen  his  mother  for  the  last  time  the  night  before.  They 
had  met  at  the  house  of  the  widow  Hinkley,  between  which 
and  that  of  Calvert,  his  time  had  been  chiefly  spent,  since 
tho  day  of  his  affair  with  Stevens.  His  determination  to 
depart  was  carefully  concealed  from  his  mother.  He  dread 
ed  to  hear  her  entreaties,  and  he  doubted  his  own  strength 
to  endure  them.  His  deportment,  however,  was  sufficiently 
fond  and  tender,  full  of  pain  and  passion,  to  have  convinced 
her,  had  she  been  at  all  suspicious  of  the  truth,  of  the  de 
sign  he  meditated.  But,  as  it  was,  it  simply  satisfied  her 
affections ;  and  the  fond  "  good  night"  with  which  he  ad- 


288  CHARLEMONT. 

dressed  her  ears  at  parting,  was  followed  by  a  gush  of  tears 
which  shocked  the  more  sturdy  courage  of  his  cousin,  and 
aroused  the  suspicions  of  the  widow. 

"  William  Hinkley,"  she  said  after  the  mother  had  gone 
home  —  "you  must  be  thinking  to  leave  Charlemont.  I'm 
sure  of  it — I  know  it." 

"  If  you  do,  say  nothing,  dear  cousin  ;  it  will  do  no  good 
— it  can  not  prevent  me  now,  and  will  only  make  our  part 
ing  more  painful." 

"  Oh,  don't  fear  me,"  said  the  widow — "  I  shan't  speak 
of  it,  till  it's  known  to  everybody,  for  I  think  you  right  to 
go  and  do  just  as  Gran'pa  Calvert  tells  you ;  but  you  needn't 
have  made  it  such  a  secret  with  me.  I've  always  been  too 
much  of  your  friend  to  say  a  word." 

"Alas!"  said  the  youth  mournfully,  "until  lately, 
dear  cousin,  I  fancied  that  I  had  no  friends  —  do  not 
blame  me,  therefore,  if  I  still  sometimes  act  as  if  I  had 
none." 

"You  have  many  friends,  William,  already — I'm  sure 
you  will  find  many  more  wherever  you  go ;  abler  friends  if 
not  fonder  ones,  than  you  leave  behind  you." 

The  youth  threw  his  arms  round  the  widow's  neck  and 
kissed  her  tenderly.  Her  words  sounded  in  his  ears  like 
some  melodious  prophecy. 

"  Say  no  more,  cousin,"  he  exclaimed  with  sudden  en 
thusiasm  ;  "  I  am  so  well  pleased  to  believe  what  you  prom 
ise  me  of  the  future,  that  I  am.  willing  to  believe  all.  God 
bless  you.  I  will  never  forget  you." 

The  parting  with  Calvert  was  more  touching  in  reality, 
but  with  fewer  of  the  external  signs  of  feeling.  A  few 
words,  a  single  embrace  and  squeeze  of  the  hand,  and  they 
separated ;  the  old  man  hiding  himself  and  his  feelings  in 
the  dimness  of  his  secluded  abode,  while  his  adopted  son, 
with  whom  Ned  Hinkley  rode  a  brief  distance  on  his  way, 
struck  spurs  into  his  steed,  as  if  to  lose,  in  the  rapid  motion 
of  the  animal,  the  slow,  sad  feelings  which  were  pressing 


EXILE.  289 

heavily  upon  his  heart.  He  had  left  Charlcmoiit  for  ever. 
He  had  left  it  under  circumstances  of  doubt,  and  despon 
dency —  stung  by  injustice,  and  baffled  in  the  first  ardent 
hopes  of  his  youthful  mind.  "  The  world  was  all  before 
him,  where  to  choose."  Let  us  not  doubt  that  the  benig 
nant  Providence  is  still  his  guide. 

13 


290  CHARLEMONT. 


OHAPiER  XXY. 

CONQUEST. 

THE  progress  of  events  and  our  story  necessarily  brings 
us  back  to  Charlemont.  We  shall  lose  sight  of  William 
Hinkley,  henceforth  Calvert,  for  some  time ;  and  here,  par 
parenthese,  let  us  say  to  our  readers,  that  this  story  being 
drawn  from  veritable  life,  will  lack  some  of  that  compact 
ness  and  close  fitness  of  parts  which  make  our  novels  too 
much  resemble  the  course  of  a  common  law  case.  Instead 
of  having  our  characters  always  at  hand,  at  the  proper  mo 
ment,  to  do  the  business  of  the  artist,  like  so  many  puppets, 
each  working  on  a  convenient  wire,  and  waiting  to  be  whis 
tled  in  upon  the  scene,  we  shall  find  them  sometimes  ab 
sent,  as  we  do  in  real  life  when  their  presence  is  most 
seriously  desired,  and  when  the  reader  would  perhaps  pre 
fer  that  they  should  come  in,  to  meet  or  make  emergencies. 
Some  are  gone  whom  we  should  rather  see ;  some  present, 
whose  absence,  in  the  language  of  the  Irishman,  would  be 
the  best  company  they  could  give  us  ;  and  some,  not  forth 
coming,  like  the  spirits  of  Owen  Glendower,  even  when 
most  stoutly  called  for.  The  vast  deeps  of  human  progress 
do  not  release  their  tenants  at  the  beck  and  call  of  ordinary 
magicians,  and  we,  who  endeavor  to  describe  events  as  we 
find  them,  must  be  content  to  take  them  and  persons,  too, 
only  when  they  are  willing.  Were  we  writing  the  dramatic 
romance,  we  should  be  required  to  keep  William  Hinkiey 
always  at  hand,  as  a  convenient  foil  to  Alfred  Stevens.  He 


COXQUEST.  291 

should  watch  his  progress  ;  pursue  his  sinuosities  of  course  ; 
trace  him  out  in  all  his  ill-favored  purposes,  and  be  ready, 
at  the  first  act  —  having,  like  the  falcon,  by  frequent  and 
constantly- ascending  gyrations,  reached  the  point  of  com 
mand —  to  pounce  down  upon  the  fated  quarry,  and  end 
the  story  and  the  strife  together.  But  ours  is  a  social  nar 
rative,  where  people  come  a"nd  go  without  much  regard  to 
the  unities,  and  without  asking  leave  of  the  manager.  Wil 
liam  Hinkley,  too.  is  a  mere  man  and  no  hero.  He  has  no 
time  to  spare,  and  he  is  conscious  that  he  lias  already  wast 
ed  too  much.  He  has  work  to  do  and  is  gone  to  do  it. 
Let  it  console  the  reader,  in  his  absence,  to  know  that  he 
will  do  it — that  his  promise  is  a  good  one  —  and  that  we 
have  already  been  shown,  in  the  dim  perspective 'of  the  fu 
ture,  glimpses  of  his  course  which  compensate  him  for  his 
mishaps,  and  gladden  the  heart  of  his  adopted  father,  by 
confirming  its  prophecies  and  hopes. 

The  same  fates  which  deny  that  he  should  realize  the 
first  fancies  of  his  boyhood,  are,  in  the  end,  perhaps,  not  a 
jot  kinder  to  others  whom  they  now  rather  seem  to  favor. 
His  absence  did  not  stop  the  social  machine  of  Charlemont 
from  travelling  on  very  much  as  before.  There  was  a 
shadow  over  his  mother's  heart,  and  his  disappearance 
rather  aroused  some  misgiving  and  self-reproachful  sensa 
tions  in  that  of  his  father.  Mr.  Calvert,  too,  had  his  touch 
of  hypochondria  in  consequence  of  his  increased  loneliness  ; 
and  Ned  Hinkley's  fighting  monomania  underwent  startling 
increase ;  but,  with  tho  rest,  the  wheel  went  on  without 
much  sensible  difference.  The  truth  is,  that,  however  mor 
tifying  the  truth  may  be,  the  best  of  us  makes  but  a  very 
small  sensation  in  his  absence.  Death  is  a  longer  absence, 
in  which  our  friends  either  forget  us,  or  recollect  our  vices. 
Our  virtues  are  best  acknowledged  when  we  are  standing 
nigh  and  ready  to  enforce  them.  Like  the  argumentative 
eloquence  of  the  Eighth  Harry,  they  are  never  effectual  un 
til  the  halberdiers  clinch  their  rivets  forcibly. 


292  CHARLEMONT. 

It  does  not  necessarily  impugn  the  benevolence  or  wisdom 
of  Providence  to  show  that  crime  is  successful  for  a  season 
in  its  purposes.  Vice  may  prevail,  and  victims  perish, 
without  necessarily  disparaging  the  career,  or  impeding  the 
progress  of  virtue.  To  show  that  innocence  may  fall,  is 
sometimes  to  strengthen  innocence,  so  that  it  may  stand 
against  all  assailants.  To  show  vice,  even  in  its  moments 
of  success,  is  not  necessarily  to  show  that  such  success  is 
desirable.  Far  from  it !  As  none  of  us  can  look  very 
deeply  into  the  future,  so  it  happens  that  the  boon  for  which 
we  pray  sometimes  turns  out  to  be  our  bane  ;  while  the 
hardship  and  suffering,  whose  approach  we  deprecate  in 
sackcloth  and  ashes,  may  come  with  healing  on  their  wings, 
and  afford  us  a  dearer  blessing  than  any  ever  yet  depicted 
in  the  loom  of  a  sanguine  and  brilliant  imagination. 

We  are,  after  all,  humbling  as  this  fact  may  be  to  our 
clamorous  vanity,  only  so  many  agents  and  instruments, 
blind,  and  scuffling  vainly  in  our  blindness,  in  the  perpetual 
law  of  progress.  A$  a  soul  never  dies,  so  it  is  never  use 
less  or  unemployed.  The  Deity  is  no  more  profligate  in  the 
matter  of  souls  than  he  is  in  that  of  seeds.  They  pass,  by 
periodical  transitions,  from  body  to  body ;  perhaps  from 
sphere  to  sphere ;  and  as  the  performance  of  their  trusts 
have  been  praiseworthy  or  censurable,  so  will  be  the  char 
acter  of  their  trusts  in  future.  He  who  has  shown  himself 
worthy  of  confidence  in  one  state,  will  probably  acquire  a 
corresponding  increase  of  responsibility  in  another.  He 
who  has  betrayed  his  trusts  or  impaired  them,  will  share 
less  of  the  privileges  of  the  great  moral  credit  system. 

In  all  these  transitions,  however,  work  is  to  be  done. 
The  fact  that  there  is  a  trust,  implies  duty  and  perform 
ance  ;  and  the  practice  of  virtue  is  nothing  more  than  the 
performance  of  this  work  to  the  best  of  our  abilities.  Well, 
we  do  not  do  our  work.  We  fail  in  our  trusts.  We  abuse 
them.  Such  a  man  as  Alfred  Stevens  abuses  them.  Such 
a  woman  as  Margaret  Cooper  fails  in  them.  What  then  ? 


CONQUEST.  293 

Do  wo  destroy  the  slave  who  fails  in  his  duty,  or  chasten 
him,  and  give  him  inferior  trusts  ?  Do  yon  suppose  that 
the  Deity  is  more  profligate  in  souls  than  in  seeds — that  he 
creates  and  sends  forth  millions  of  new  souls,  annually,  in 
place  of  those  which  have  gone  astray  ?  Hardly  so  !  He 
is  too  good  an  economist  for  that.  We  learn  this  from  all 
the  analogies.  As  a  soul  can  not  perish,  so  it  never  remains 
unemployed.  It  still  works,  though  its  labors  may  be  con 
fined  to  a  treadmill. 

The  mere  novel-reader  may  regard  all  this  as  so  much 
unnecessary  digression.  But  let  him  not  deceive  himself. 
It  would  be  the  most  humiliating  and  painful  thought,  in 
deed,  could  we  believe  that  the  genius  which  informs  and 
delights  us  —  which  guides  the  bark  of  state  through  a 
thousand  storms  and  dangers  to  its  port  of  safety — which 
conquers  and  commands — which  sings  in  melodies  that 
make  melodies  in  human  hearts  for  thousands  of  succeed 
ing  years — is  suddenly  to  be  suspended — to  have  no  more 
employment — to  do  no  more  work — guide  no  more  states 
—  make  no  more  melodies !  Nay,  the  pang  would  be 
scarcely  less  to  believe  that  a  fair  intellect  like  that  of  Al 
fred  Stevens,  or  a  wild,  irregular  genius,  like  that  of  Mar 
garet  Cooper — because  of  its  erring,  either  through  per 
versity  or  blindness,  is  wholly  to  become  defunct,  so  far  as 
employment  is  concerned — that  they  are  to  be  deprived  of 
all  privilege  of  working  up  to  the  lost  places  —  regaining 
the  squandered  talents  —  atoning,  by  industry  and  humble 
desire,  the  errors  and  deficiencies  of  the  past !  "We  rather 
believe  that  heaven  is  a  world  where  the  labors  are  more 
elevated,  the  necessities  less  degrading ;  that  it  is  no  more 
permanent  than  what  we  esteem  present  life ;  nay,  that  it 
is  destined  to  other  transitions ;  that  we  may  still  ascend, 
on  and  on,  and  that  each  heaven  has  its  higher  heaven  yet. 
We  believe  that  our  immortality  is  from  the  beginning ; 
that  time  is  only  a  periodical  step  in  eternity  —  that  transi 
tion  is  the  true  meaning  of  life  —  and  death  nothing  more 


CHARLEMONT. 

than  a  sign  of  progress.  It  may  be  an  upward  or  a  down- 
ward  progress,  but  it  is  not  a  toilsome  march  to  a  mere 
sleep.  Lavish  as  is  the  bounty  of  God,  and  boundless  as 
are  his  resources,  there  is  nothing  of  him  that  we  do  know 
which  can  justify  the  idea  of  such  utter  profligacy  of  ma 
terial. 

We  transgress.  Our  business  is  with  the  present  doings 
of  our  dramatis  personas  and  not  with  the  future  employ 
ment  of  their  souls.  Still,  we  believe,  the  doctrine  which 
we  teach  not  only  to  be  more  rational,  but  absolutely  more 
moral  than  the  conjectures  on  this  subject  which  are  in  or 
dinary  use.  More  rational  as  relates  to  the  characteristics 
of  the  Deity,  and  more  moral  as  it  affects  the  conduct  and 
the  purposes  of  man  himself.  There  is  something  grand 
beyond  all  things  else,  in  the  conception  of  this  eternal 
progress  of  the  individual  nature  ;  its  passage  from  condi 
tion  to  condition  ;  sphere  to  sphere  ;  life  to  life  ;  always 
busy,  working  for  the  mighty  Master ;  falling  and  sinking 
to  mere  menial  toils,  or  achieving  and  rising  to  more  noble 
trusts ;  but,  at  all  events,  still  working  in  some  way  in  the 
great  world-plantation,  and  under  the  direct  eye  of  the  sov 
ereign  World-Planter.  The  torture  of  souls  on  the  one 
hand,  and  the  singing  of  psalms  on  the  other,  may  be  doc 
trines  infinitely  more  orthodox ;  but,  to  our  mind,  they 
seem  immeasurably  inferior  in  grandeur,  in  propriety,  in 
noble  conception  of  the  appointments  of  the  creature,  and 
the  wondrous  and  lovely  designs  of  the  benignant  Father. 

The  defeat  of  such  a  soul  as  that  of  Margaret  Cooper,  can 
surely  be  a  temporary  defeat  only.  It  will  regain  strength, 
it  must  rise  in  the  future,  it  must  recover  the  lost  ground, 
and  reassert  the  empire  whose  sway  it  has  unwillingly 
abandoned ;  for  it  is  not  through  will,  wholly,  by  which  we 
lose  the  moral  eminence.  Something  is  due  to  human 
weaknesses  ;  to  the  blindness  in  which  a  noble  spirit  is 
sometimes  suffered  to  grow  into  stature  ;  disproportioned 
stature  —  that,  reaching  to  heaven,  is  yet  shaken  down  and 


CONQUEST.  295 

overthrown  by  the  merest  breath  of  storm  that^svveeps  sud 
denly  beneath  its  skies.  The  very  hopelessness  of  Marga 
ret  Cooper's  ambition,  which  led  her  to  misanthropy,  was 
the  source  of  an  ever-fertile  and  upspringing  confidence. 
Thus  it  was  that  the  favoring  opinions  which  Alfred  Stevens 
expressed  —  a  favoring  opinion  expressed  by  one  whom  she 
soon  discovered  was  well  able  to  form  one  —  accompanied 
by  an  assurance  that  the  drearn  of  fame  which  her  wild  im 
agination  had  formed  should  certainly  be  realized,  gave  him 
a  large  power  over  her  confidence.  Her  passion  was  sway 
—  the  sway  of  mind  over  mind  —  of  genius  over  sympathy 
-  of  the  syren  Genius  over  the  subject  Love.  It  was  this 
passion  which  had  made  her  proud,  which  had  filled  her 
mind  with  visions,  and  yielded  to  her  a  world  by  itself,  and 
like  no  other,  filled  with  all  forms  of  worship  and  attrac 
tion  ;  chivalrous  faith,  unflagging  zeal,  generous  confidence, 
pure  spirits,  and  the  most  unquestioning  loyalty  !  Ignorant 
of  the  world  which  she  had  not  seen,  and  of  those  move 
ments  of  human  passion  which  she  had  really  never  felt,  she 
naturally  regarded  Alfred  Stevens  as  one  of  the  noble  rep 
resentatives  of  that  imaginary  empire  which  her  genius  con 
tinually  brought  before  her  eyes.  She  saw  in  him  the  em 
bodiment  of  that  faith  in  her  intellect  which  it  was  the  first 
aAd  last  hope  of  her  intellect  to  inspire  ;  and  seeing  thus, 
it  will  be  easy  to  believe  that  her  full  heart,  which,  hitherto, 
had  poured  itself  forth  on  rocks,  and  trees,  and  solitary 
places,  forgetful  of  all  prudence  —  a  lesson  which  she  had 
never  learned  —  and  rejoicing  in  the  sympathy  of  a  being 
like  herself,  now  gushed  forth  with  all  the  volume  of  its 
impatient  fullness.  The  adroit  art  of  her  companion  led  her 
for  ever  into  herself;  she  was  continually  summoned  to 
pour  forth  the  treasures  of  her  mind  and  soul ;  and,  toiling 
in  the  same  sort  of  egoisme  in  which  her  life  heretofore 
had  been  consumed,  she  was  necessarily  diverted  from  all 
doubts  or  apprehensions  of  the  occult  purposes  of  him  who 
had  thus  beguiled  her  over  the  long-frequented  paths.  As 


296  CHARLEMONT. 

the  great  secret  of  success  with  the  mere  worldling,  is  to 
pry  into  the  secret  of  his  neighbor  while  carefully  conceal 
ing  his  own,  so  it  is  the  great  misfortune  of  enthusiasm  to 
be  soon  blinded  to  a  purpose  which  its  own  ardent  nature 
neither  allows  it  to  suspect  nor  penetrate.  Enthusiasm  is 
a  thing  of  utter  confidence  ;  it  has  no  suspicion  ;  it  sets  no 
watch  on  other  hearts  ;  it  is  too  constantly  employed  in 
pouring  forth  the  treasures  of  its  own.  It  is  easy,  there 
fore,  to  deceive  and  betray  it,  to  beguile  it  into  confidence, 
and  turn  all  its  revelations  against  itself.  How  far  the 
frequency  of  this  usage  in  the  world  makes  it  honorable,  is 
a  question  which  we  need  not  discuss  on  this  occasion. 

Alfred  Stevens  had  now  been  for  some  weeks  in  the  vil 
lage  of  Charlemont,  where,  in  the  meantime,  he  had  become 
an  object  of  constantly-increasing  interest.  The  men  shrank 
from  him  with  a  feeling  of  inferiority;  the  women — the 
young  ones  being  understood — shrank  from  him  also,  but 
with  that  natural  art  of  the  sex  which  invites  pursuit,  and 
strives  to  conquer  even  in  flight.  But  it  was  soon  evident 
enough  that  Stevens  bestowed  his  best  regards  solely  upon 
Margaret  Cooper.  If  he  sought  the  rest,  it  was  simply  in 
compliance  with  those  seeming  duties  of  his  ostensible  pro 
fession  which  were  necessary  to  maintain  appearances. 
Whether  he  loved  Margaret  Cooper  or  not,  he  soon  found 
a  pleasure  in  her  society  which  he  sought  for  in  no  other 
quarter  of  the  village.  The  days,  in  spite  of  the  strife  with 
William  Hinkley,  flew  by  with  equal  pleasantness  and  ra 
pidity  to  both.  The  unsophisticated  mind  of  Margaret 
Cooper  left  her  sensible  to  few  restraints  upon  their  ordi 
nary  intercourse ;  and,  indeed,  if  she  did  know  or  regard 
them  for  an  instant,  it  was  only  to  consider  them  as  neces 
sary  restraints  for  the  protection  of  the  ignorant  and  feeble 
of  her  sex — a  class  in  whicli  she  never  once  thought  to  in 
clude  herself.  Her  attachment  to  Alfred  Stevens,  though 
it  first  arose  from  the  pleasure  which  her  mind  derived  from 
its  intercourse  with  his,  and  not  from  any  of  those  nice  and 


CONQUEST.  29 1 

curious  sympathies  of  temperament  and  tas(e  which  are  sup 
posed  to  constitute  the  essence  and  comprise  the  secret  of 
love,  was  yet  sufficient  to  blind  her  judgment  to  the  risks 
of  feeling,  if  nothing  more,  which  were  likely  to  arise  from 
their  hourly-increasing  intimacy ;  and  she  wandered  with 
him  into  the  devious  woods,  and  they  walked  by  moonlight 
among  the  solemn-shaded  hills,  and  the  unconscious  girl 
had  no  sort  of  apprehension  that  the  spells  of  an  enslaving 
passion  were  rapidly  passing  over  her  soul. 

How  should  she  apprehend  such  spells  ?  how  break  them  ? 
For  the  first  time  in  her  life  had  she  found  intellectual  sym 
pathy —  the  only  moral  response  which  her  heart  longed  to 
hear.  For  the  first  time  had  she  encountered  a  mind  which 
could  do  justice  to,  and  correspond  on  anything  like  equal 
terms  with,  her  own.  How  could  she  think  that  evil  w_ould 
ensue  from  an  acquisition  which  yielded  her  the  only  com 
munion  which  she  had  ever  craved  ?  Her  confidence  in 
herself,  in  her  own  strength,  and  her  ignorance  of  her  own 
passions,  were  sufficient  to  render  her  feelings  secure ;  and 
then  she  was  too  well  satisfied  of  the  superiority  and  noble 
ness  of  his.  But,  in  truth,  she  never  thought  upon  the  sub 
ject.  Her  mind  dwelt  only  on  the  divine  forms  and  images 
of  poetry.  The  ideal  world  had  superseded,  not  only  the 
dangers,  but  the  very  aspect,  of  the  real.  Under  the  magic 
action  of  her  fancy,  she  had  come  to  dwell 

"  With  those  gay  creatures  of  the  element 
That  in  the  colors  of  the  rainbow  live, 
And  play  i'  the  plighted  clouds" — 

she  had  come  to  speak  only  in  the  one  language,  and  of 
the  one  topic  ;  and,  believing  now  that  she  had  an  auditor 
equally  able  to  comprehend  and  willing  to  sympathize  with 
her  cravings,  she  gave  free  scope  to  the  utterance  of  her 
fancies,  and  to  the  headlong  impulse  of  that  imagination 
which  had  never  felt  the  curb. 

The  young  heart,  not  yet  chilled  by  the  world's  denials, 
13* 


298  CHARLEMONT. 

will  readily  comprehend  the  beguiling  influence  of  the 
dreaming  and  enthusiastic  nature  of  some  dear  spirit,  in 
whose  faith  it  has  full  confidence,  and  whose  tastes  are  kin 
dred  with  its  own.  How  sweet  the  luxury  of  moonlight  in 
commerce  with  such  a  congenial  spirit !  how  heavenly  the 
occasional  breath  of  the  sweet  southwest !  ho\v  gentle  and 
soothing  fond  the  whispers  of  night — the  twiring  progress 
of  sad-shining  stars  —  the  gentle  sway  of  winds  among  the 
tree-tops  —  the  plaintive  moan  of  billows,  as  they  gather 
and  disperse  themselves  along  the  shores !  To  speak  of 
these  delights  ;  to  walk  hand-in-hand  along  the  gray  sands 
by  the  seaside,  and  whisper  in  murmuring  tones,  that  seem 
to  gather  sympathies  from  those  of  ocean  ;  to  guide  the  eye 
of  the  beloved  associate  to  the  sudden  object ;  to  challenge 
the  kindred  fancy  which  comments  upon  our  own  ;  to  re 
member  together,  and  repeat,  the  happy  verse  of  inspired 
poets,  speaking  of  the  scene,  and  to  the  awakened  heart 
which  feels  it ;  and,  more,  to  pour  forth  one's  own  inspira 
tions  in  the  language  of  tenderness  and  song,  and  awaken 
in  the  heart  of  our  companion  the  rapture  to  which  our  own 
has  given  speech — these,  which  are  subjects  of  mock  and 
scorn  to  the  worldling,  are  substantial  though  not  enduring 
joys  to  the  young  and  ardent  nature. 

In  this  communion,  with  all  her  pride,  strength,  and  con 
fidence,  Margaret  Cooper  was  the  merest  child.  'Without 
a  feeling  of  guile,  she  was  dreaming  of  the  greatness  which 
her  ambition  craved,  and  telling  her  dreams,  with  all  the  art 
less  freedom  of  the  child  who  has  some  golden  fancy  of  the 
future,  which  it  seeks  to  have  confirmed  by  the  lips  of  ex 
perience.  The  wily  Stevens  led  her  on,  gave  stimulus  to 
her  enthusiasm,  made  her  dreams  become  reasonable  in  her 
eyes,  and  laughed  at  them  in  his  secret  heart.  She  sung 
at  his  suggestion,  and  sung  her  own  verses  with  all  that 
natural  tremor  which  even  the  most  self-assured  poet  feels 
on  such  an  occasion. 

"  Beautiful !"  the  arch-hypocrite  would  exclaim,  as  if  un- 


CONQUEST.  299 

conscious  of  utterance  ;  "beautiful!"  and  his  hand  would 
possess  itself  of  the  trembling  fingers  of  hers.     "  But  beau 
tiful  as  it  is,  Margaret,  I  am  sure  that  it  is  nothing  to  what, 
you  could  do  under  more  auspicious  circumstances." 

"  Ah !  if  there  were  ears  to  hear,  if  there  were  hearts  to 
feel,  and  eyes  to  weep,  I  feel,  I  know,  what  might  be  done. 
No,  no  !  this  is  nothing.  This  is  the  work  of  a  child." 

"  Nay,  Margaret,  if  the  work  of  a  child,  it  is  that  of  a 
child  of  genius." 

"Ah  !  do  not  flatter  me,  Alfred  Stevens,  do  not  deceive 
me.  I  am  too  willing  to  believe  you,  for  it  is  so  dear  a 
feeling  to  think  that  I  too  >am  a  poet.  Yet,  at  the  first,  I 
had  not  the  smallest  notion  of  this  kind :  I  neither  knew 
what  poetry  was,  nor  felt  the  desire  to  be  a  poet.  Yet  I 
yearned  with  strange  feelings,  which  uttered  themselves  in 
that  form  ere  I  had  seen  books  or  read  the  verses  of  others. 
It  was  an  instinct  that  led  me  as  it  would.  I  sometimes 
fear  that  I  have  been  foolish  in  obeying  it ;  for  oh,  what  has 
it  brought  me?  What  am  I  ?  what  are  my  joys?  I  am 
lonely  even  with  my  companions.  I  share  not  the  sports 
and  feel  not  the  things  which  delight  my  sex.  Their 
dances  and  frolics  give  me  no  pleasure.  I  have  no  sympa 
thy  with  them  or  their  cares.  I  go  apart — I  am  here  on 
the  hills,  or  deep  in  the  forests  —  sad,  lonely,  scarcely 
knowing  what  I  am,  and  what  I  desire." 

"  You  are  not  alone,  nor  are  your  pleasures  less  acute 
than  theirs.  If  they  laugh,  their  laughter  ends  in  sleep. 
If  you  are  sad,  you  lose  not  the  slightest  faculty  of  percep 
tion  or  sensibility,  but  rather  gain  them  in  consequence. 
Laughter  and  tears  are  signs  neither  of  happiness  nor  grief, 
and  as  frequently  result  from  absolute  indifference  as  from 
any  active  emotion.  If  you  are  absent  from  them,  you  have 
better  company.  You  can  summon  spirits  to  your  com 
munion,  Margaret ;  noble  thoughts  attend  you ;  eyes  that 
cheer,  lips  that  assure  you,  and  whispers,  from  unknown 
attendants,  that  bid  you  bo  of  good  heart,  for  the  good 


300  CHARLEMONT. 

time  is  coming.  Ah !  Margaret,  believe  me  when  I  tell 
you  that  time  is  at  hand.  Such  a  genius  as  yours,  such 
a  spirit,  can  not  always  be  buried  in  these  woods." 

It  was  in  such  artful  language  as  this  that  the  arch-hypo 
crite  flattered  and  beguiled  her.  They  were  wandering 
along  the  edge  of  the  streamlet  to  which  we  have  more  than 
once  conducted  the  footsteps  of  the  reader.  The  sun  was 
about  setting.  The  autumn  air  was  mild  with  a  gentle 
breathing  from  the  south.  The  woods  were  still  and  meek 
as  the  slumbers  of  an  infant.  The  quiet  of  the  scene  har 
monized  with  the  temper  of  their  thoughts  and  feelings. 
They  sat  upon  a  fragment  of  the  rock.  Margaret  was  silent, 
but  her  eyes  were  glistening  bright — not  with  hope  only, 
but  with  that  first  glimmering  consciousness  of  a  warmer 
feeling,  which  gives  a  purple  light  to  hope,  and  makes  the 
heart  tremble,  for  the  first  time,  with  its  own  expectations. 
It  did  not  escape  Alfred  Stevens  that,  for  the  first  time, 
her  eye  sank  beneath  his  glance ;  for  the  first  time  there 
was  a  slight  flush  upon  her  cheek.  He  was  careful  not  to 
startle  and  alarm  the  consciousness  which  these  signs  indi 
cated.  The  first  feeling  which  the  young  heart  has  of  its 
dependence  upon  another  is  one  little  short  of  terror ;  it 
is  a  feeling  which  wakens  up  suspicion,  and  puts  all  the 
senses  upon  the  watch.  To  appear  to  perceive  this  emo 
tion  is  to  make  it  circumspect ;  to  disarm  it,  one  must  wear 
the  aspect  of  unconsciousness.  The  wily  Stevens,  practised 
in  the  game,  and  master  of  the  nature  of  the  unsuspecting 
girl,  betrayed  in  his  looks  none  of  the  intelligence  whicli 
he  felt.  If  he  uttered  himself  in  the  language  of  admira 
tion,  it  was  that  admiration  which  would  be  natural  to  a 
profound  adorer  of  literature  and  all  its  professors.  His 
words  were  those  of  the  amateur : — 

"  I  can  not  understand,  Margaret,  how  you  have  studied 
—  how  you  have  learned  so  much — your  books  are  few — 
you  have  had  no  masters.  I  never  met  in  my  life  with  sc 
remarkable  an  instance  of  unassisted  endeavor." 


CONQUEST.         .  301 

"My  books  were  here  in  the  woods — among  these  old 
rocks.  My  teacher  was  solitude.  Ah  !  there  is  no  teacher 
like  one's  own  heart.  My  instinct  made  me  feel  my  defi 
ciencies —  my  deficiencies  taught  me  contemplation — and 
from  contemplation  came  thoughts  and  cravings,  and  you 
know,  when  the  consciousness  of  our  lack  is  greatest,  then, 
even  the  dumb  man  finds  a  voice.  I  found  my  voice  in 
consequence  of  my  wants.  My  language  you  see  is  that  of 
complaint  only." 

"And  a  sweet  and  noble  language  it  is,  Margaret;  but 
it  is  not  in  poetry  alone  that  your  utterance  is  so  distinct 
and  beautiful — you  sing  too  with  a  taste  as  well  as  power 
which  would  prove  that  contemplation  was  as  happy  in 
bringing  about  perfection  in  the  one  as  in  the  other  art. 
Do  sing  me,  Margaret,  that  little  ditty  which  you  sang  here 
the  other  night?" 

His  hand  gently  detained  and  pressed  hers  as  he  urged 
the  request. 

"  I  would  rather  not  sing  to-night,"  she  replied,  "  I  do 
not  feel  as  if  I  could,  and  I  trust  altogether  to  feeling.  1 
will  sing  for  you  some  other  time  when  you  do  not  ask,  and, 
perhaps  would  prefer  not  to  hear  me." 

"  To  hear  you  at  all,  Margaret,  is  music  to  my  ears." 

She  was  silent,  and  her  fingers  made  a  slight  movement 
to  detach  themselves  from  his. 

"  No,  Margaret,  do  not  withdraw  them  !  Let  me  detain 
them  thus — longer — for  ever  !  My  admiration  of  you  has 
been  too  deeply  felt  not  to  have  been  too  clearly  shown. 
Your  genius  is  too  dear  to  me  now  to  suffer  me  to  lose  it. 
Margaret — dear  Margaret!" 

She  spoke  not — her  breathing  became  quick  and  hard. 

"  You  do  not  speak,  let  me  hope  that  you  are  not  angry 
with  me?" 

"  No,  no !"  she  whispered  faintly.  He  continued  with 
more  boldness,  and  while  he  spoke,  his  arm  encircled  her 
waist. 


302  CHAELEMONT. 

"  A  blessed  chance  brought  me  to  your  village.  I  saw 
you  and  returned.  I  chose  a  disguise  in  which  I  might 
study  you,  and  see  how  far  the  treasures  of  your  mind  con 
firmed  the  noble  promise  of  your  face.  They  have  done 
more.  Like  him  who  finds  the  precious  ore  among  the 
mountains,  I  can  not  part  with  you  so  found.  I  must  tear 
you  from  the  soil.  I  must  bear  you  with  me.  You  must 
be  mine,  Margaret — you  must  go  with  me  where  the  world 
will  see,  and  envy  me  my  prize." 

He  pressed  her  to  his  bosom.     She  struggled  slightly. 

"Do  not,  do  not,  Alfred  Stevens,  do  not  press  me — do 
not  keep  me.  You  think  too  much  of  me.  I  am  no  treas 
ure — alas!  this  is  all  deception.  You  can  not — cannot 
desire  it  ?" 

"  Do  I  not !  Ah  !  Margaret,  what  else  do  I  desire  now  ? 
Do  you  think  me  only  what  I  appear  in  Charlemont  ?" 

"No!  no!" 

"  I  have  the  power  of  a  name,  Margaret,  in  my  profes 
sion —  among  a  numerous  people — and  that  power  is  grow 
ing  into  wealth  and  sway.  I  am  feared  and  honored,  loved 
by  some,  almost  worshipped  by  others ;  and  what  has  led 
me  from  this  sway,  to  linger  among  these  hills — to  waste 
hours  so  precious  to  ambition — to  risk  the  influence  which 
I  had  already  secured — what,  but  a  higher  impulse — a 
dearer  prospect — a  treasure,  Margaret,  of  equal  beauty 
and  genius." 

Her  face  was  hidden  upon  his  bosom.  He  felt  the  beat 
ing  of  her  heart  against  his  hand. 

"  If  you  have  a  genius  for  song,  Margaret  Cooper,  I,  too, 
am  not  without  my  boast.  In  my  profession,  men  speak  of 
my  eloquence  as  that  of  a  genius  which  has  few  equals,  and 
no  superior." 

"  I  know  it — it  must  be  so  !" 

"  Move  me  not  to  boast,  dear  Margaret ;  it  is  in  your 
ears  only  that  I  do  so — and  only  to  assure  you  that,  in 
listening  to  my  love,  you  do  not  yield  to  one  utterly  obscure, 


CONQUEST.  303 

and  wanting  in  claims,  which,  as  yours  must  be  finally,  are 
already  held  to  be  established  and  worthy  of  the  best 
admiration  of  the  intelligent  and  wise.  Do  you  hear  me, 
Margaret  ?" 

"  I  do,  I  do !  It  must  be  as  you  say.  But  of  love  I 
have  thought  nothing.  No,  no !  I  know  not,  Alfred  Ste 
vens,  if  I  love  or  not — if  I  can  love." 

"  You  mistake,  Margaret.  It  is  in  the  heart  that  the 
head  finds  its  inspiration.  Mere  intellect  makes  not  genius. 
All  the  intellect  in  the  world  would  fail  of  this  divine  con 
summation.  It  is  from  the  fountains  of  feeling  that  poetry 
drinks  her  inspiration.  It  is  at  the  altars  of  love  that  the 
genius  of  song  first  bends  in  adoration.  You  have  loved, 
Marga-ret,  from  the  first  moment  when  you  sung.  It  did 
not  alter  the  case  that  there  was  no  object  of  sight.  The 
image  was  in  your  mind — in  your  hope.  One  sometimes 
goes  through  life  without  ever  meeting  the  human  counter 
part  of  this  ideal ;  and  the  language  of  such  a  heart  will 
be  that  of  chagrin  —  distaste  of  life — misanthropy,  and  a 
general  scorn  of  his  own  nature.  Such,  I  trust,  is  not  your 
destiny.  No,  Margaret,  that  is  impossible.  I  take  your 
doubt  as  my  answer,  and  .unless  your  own  lips  undeceive 
me,  dearest  Margaret,  I  will  believe  that  your  love  is  wil 
ling  to  requite  my  own." 

She  was  actually  sobbing  on  his  breast.  With  an  effort 
she  struggled  into  utterance. 

"  My  heart  is  so  full,  my  feelings  are  so  strange — oh! 
Alfred  Stevens,  I  never  fancied  I  could  be  so  weak." 

"  So  weak — to  love  !  surely,  Margaret,  you  mistake  the 
word.  It  is  in  loving  only  that  the  heart  finds  its  strength. 
Love  is  the  heart's  sole  business ;  and  not  to  exercise  it  in 
its  duties  is  to  impair  its  faculties,  and  deprive  it  equally 
of  its  pleasures  and  its  tasks.  Oh,  I  will  teach  you  of  the 
uses  of  this  little  heart  of  yours,  dear  Margaret — ay,  till 
it  grow  big  with  its  own  capacity  to  teach.  We  will  in 
form  each  other,  every  hour,  of  some  new  impulses  and 


304  CHAELEMONT. 

objects.  Our  dreams,  our  hopes,  our  fears,  and  our  desires, 
ah!  Margaret — what  a  study  of  love  will  these  afford  us. 
Nor  to  love  only.  Ah  !  dearest,  when  your  muse  shall  have 
its  audience,'  its  numerous  watching  eyes  and  eager  ears, 
then  shall  you  discover  how  much  richer  will  be  the  strain 
from  your  lips  once  informed  by  the  gushing  fullness  of  this 
throbbing  heart." 

She  murmured  fondly  in  his  embrace,  "  Ah !  I  ask  no 
other  eyes  and  ears  than  yours." 

In  the  glow  of  a  new  and  overpowering  emotion,  such 
indeed  was  her  feeling.  He  gathered  her  up  closer  in  his 
arms.  He  pressed  his  lips  upon  the  rich  ripe  beauties  of 
hers,  as  some  hungering  bee,  darting  upon  the  yet  unrifled 
flower  which  it  first  finds  in  the  shadows  of  the  forest, 
clings  to,  and  riots  on,  the  luscious  loveliness,  as  if  appe 
tite  could  only  be  sated  in  its  exhaustion.  She  struggled 
and  freed  herself  from  his  embrace :  but,  returning  home 
that  evening  her  eye  was  cast  upon  the  ground ;  her  step 
was  set  down  hesitatingly ;  there  was  a  tremor  in  her 
heart ;  a  timid  expression  in  her  face  and  manner  !  These 
were  proofs  of  the  discovery  which  she  then  seems  to  have 
made  for  the  first  time,  that  there  is  a  power  stronger  than 
mere  human  will  —  a  power  that  controls  genius;  that 
mocks  at  fame  ;  feels  not  the  lack  of  fortune,  and  is  inde 
pendent  of  the  loss  of  friends !  She  now  first  knew  her 
weakness.  She  had  felt  the  strength  of  love !  Ah !  the 
best  of  us  may  quail,  whatever  his  hardihood,  in  the  day 
when  love  asserts  his  strength  and  goes  forth  to  victory. 

Margaret  Cooper  sought  her  chamber,  threw  herself  on 
the  bed,  and  turned  her  face  in  the  pillow  to  hide  the  burn 
ing  blushes  which,  with  every  movement  of  thought  and 
memory,  seemed  to  increase  upon  her  cheek.  Yet,  while 
she  blushed  and  even  wept,  her  heart  throbbed  and  trem 
bled  with  the  birth  of  a  new  emotion  of  joy.  Ah !  how 
sweet  is  our  first  secret  pleasure  —  shared  by  one  other  only 
—  sweet  to  that  other  as  to  ourself— so  precious  to  him 


CONQUEST.  305 

also.  To  be  carried  into  our  chamber — to  be  set  up  osten 
tatiously —  there,  where  none  but  ourselves  may  see — to 
be  an  object  of  our  constant  tendance,  careful  idolatry, 
keen  suspicion,  delighted  worship! 

Ah  !  but  if  the  other  makes  it  no  idol — his  toy  only — 
what  shall  follow  this  desecration  of  the  sacred  thing! 
What  but  shame,  remorse,  humiliation,  perhaps  death!  — 
alas !  for  Margaret  Cooper,  the  love  which  had  so  suddenly 
grown  into  a  precious  divinity  with  her,  was  no  divinity 
with  him.  He  is  no  believer.  He  has  no  faith  in  such 
things,  but  like  the  trader  in  religion,  he  can  preach  deftly 
the  good  doctrines  which  he  can  not  feel  and  is  slow  to 
practise. 


306  CHARLEMONT. 


CHAPTER    XXVI. 

FALL. 

WE  should  speak  unprofitably  and  with  little  prospect  of 
being  understood,  did  our  readers  require  to  be  told,  that 
there  is  a  certain  impatient  and  gnawing  restlessness  in  the 
heart  of  love,  which  keeps  it  for  ever  feverish  and  anxious. 
Where  this  passion  is  associated  with  a  warm,  enthusiastic 
genius,  owning  the  poetic  temperament,  the  anxiety  is  pro 
portionally  greater.  The  ideal  of  the  mind  is  a  sort  of 
classical  image  of  perfect  loveliness,  chaste,  sweet,  com 
manding,  but,  how  cold  !  But  love  gives  life  to  this  image, 
even  as  the  warm  rays  of  the  sun  falling  upon  the  sullen 
lips  of  the  Memrion,  compel  its  utterance  in  music.  It  not 
only  looks  beauty — it  breathes  it.  It  is  not  only  the  aspect 
of  the  Apollo,  it  is  the  god  himself;  his  full  lyre  strung,  his 
golden  bow  quivering  at  his  back  with  the  majesty  of  his 
motion  ;  and  his  lips  parting  with  the  song  which  shall 
make  the  ravished  spheres  stoop,  and  gather  round  to 
listen. 

Hitherto  Margaret  Cooper  had  been  a  girl  of  strong  will ; 
will  nursed  in  solitude,  and  by  the  wrong-headed  indulgence 
of  a  vain  and  foolish  mother.  She  was  conscious  of  that 
bounding,  bursting  soul  of  genius  which  possessed  her 
bosom  ;  that  strange,  moody,  and  capricious  god ;  pent-up, 
denied,  crying  evermore  for  utterance,  with  a  breath  more 
painful  to  endure,  because  of  the  suppression.  This  con-' 
sciousness,  with  the  feeling  of  denial  which  attended  it,  had 


FALL.  307 

cast  a  gloomy  intensity  over  her  features  not  less  than  her 
mind.  The  belief  that  she  was  possessed  of  treasures  which 
were  unvalued  —  that  she  had  powers  which  were  never  to 
be  exercised — that  with  a  song  sucli  as  might  startle  an 
empire,  she  was  yet  doomed  to  a  silent  and  senseless  audi 
tory  of  rocks  and  trees  ;  this  belief  had  brought  with  it  a 
moody  arrogance  of  temper  which  had  made  itself  felt  by 
all  around  her.  In  one  hour  this  mood  had  departed. 
Ambition  and  love  became  united  for  a  common  purpose ; 
for  the  object  of  the  latter,  was  also  the  profound  admirer 
of  the  former. 

The  anxious  restlessness  which  her  newly-acquired  sen 
sations  occasioned  in  her  bosom,  was  not  diminished  by  a 
renewal  of  those  tender  interviews  with  her  lover,  which 
we  have  endeavored,  though  so  faultily,  already  to  describe. 
Evening  after  evening  found  them  together ;  the  wily  hypo 
crite  still  stimulating,  by  his  glozing  artifices,  the  ruling 
passion  for  fame,  which,  in  her  bosom,  was  only  tempora 
rily  subservient  to  love,  while  he  drank  his  precious  reward 
from  her  warm,  lovely,  and  still-blushing  lips  and  cheeks. 
The  very  isolation  in  which  she  had  previously  dwelt  in 
Charlemont,  rendered  the  society  of  Stevens  still  more  dear 
to  her  heart.  She  was  no  longer  alone  —  no  longer  un 
known —  not  now  unappreciated  in  that  respect  in  which 
hitherto  she  felt  her  great  denial.  "  Here  is  one — himself 
a  genius — who  can  do  justice  to  mine." 

The  young  poet  who  finds  an  auditor,  where  he  has  never 
had  one  before,  may  be  likened  to  a  blind  man  suddenly 
put  in  possession  of  his  sight.  He  sees  sun  and  moon  and 
stars,  the  forms  of  beauty,  the  images  of  grace  ;  and  his  soul 
grows  intoxicated  with  the  wonders  of  its  new  empire. 
What  does  he  owe  to  him  who  puts  him  in  possession  of 
these  treasures?  who  has  given  him  his  sight  ?  Love,  devo 
tion,  all  that  his  full  heart  has  to  pay- of  homage  and  affec 
tion. 

Such  was  very  much  the  relation  which  Margaret  Cooper 


808  CHARLEMONT. 

bore  to  Alfred  Stevens  ;  and  when,  by  his  professions  of 
love,  he  left  the  shows  of  his  admiration  no  longer  doubt 
ful,  she  was  at  once  and  entirely  his.  She  was  no  longer 
the  self-willed,  imperious  damsel,  full  of  defiance,  dreaming 
of  admiration  only,  scornful  of  the  inferior,  and  challenging 
the  regards  of  equals.  She  was  now  a  timid,  trembling 
girl  —  a  dependant,  such  as  the  devoted  heart  must  ever 
be,  waiting  for  the  sign  to  speak,  looking  eagerly  for  the 
smile  to  reward  her  sweetest  utterance.  If  now  she  walked 
with  Stevens,  she  no  longer  led  the  way ;  she  hung  a  little' 
backward,  though  she  grasped  his  arm — nay,  even  when 
her  hand  was  covered  with  a  gentle  pressure  in  the  folds  of 
his.  If  she  sung,  she  did  not  venture  to  meet  his  eyes, 
which  shQfelt  must  be  upon  hers,  and  now  it  was  no  longer 
her  desire  that  the  village  damsels  should  behold  them  as 
they  went  forth  together  on  their  rambles.  She  no  longer 
met  their  cunning  and  significant  smiles  with  confidence  and 
pride,  but  with  faltering  looks,  and  with  cheeks  covered 
with  blushes.  Great,  indeed,  was  the  change  which  had 
come  over  that  once  proud  spirit — change  surprising  to  all, 
but  as  natural  as  any  other  of  the  thousand  changes  which 
are  produced  in  the  progress  of  moments  by  the  arch-magi 
cian,  Love.  Heretofore,  her  song  had  disdained  the  ordi 
nary  topics  of  the  youthful  ballad-monger.  She  had  uttered 
her  apostrophes  to  the  eagle,  soaring  through  the  black, 
billowy  masses  of  the  coming  thunder-storm ;  to  the  lonely 
but  lofty  rock,  lonely  in  its  loftiness,  which  no  foot  travelled 
but  her  own;  to  the  silent  glooms  of  the  forest  —  to  the 
majesty  of  white-bearded  and  majestic  trees.  The  dove  and 
the  zephyr  now  shared  her  song,  and  a  deep  sigh  commonly 
closed  it.  She  was  changed  from  what  she  was.  The 
affections  had  suddenly  bounded  into  being,  trampling  the 
petty  vanities  under  foot ;  and  those  first  lessons  of  humil 
ity  which  are  taught  by  love,  had  subdued  a  spirit  which, 
hitherto,  had  never  known  control. 

Alfred  Stevens  soon  perceived  how  complete  was  his  vie- 


FALL.  309 

toiy.  He  soon  saw  the  extent  of  that  sudden  change  which 
had  come  over  her  character.  Hitherto,  she  had  been  the 
orator.  When  they  stood  together  by  the  lake-side,  or 
upon  the  rock,  it  was  her  finger  which  had  pointed  out  the 
objects  for  contemplation  ;  it  was  her  voice  whose  eloquence 
had  charmed  the  ear,  dilating,  upon  the  beauties  or  the 
wonders  which  they  surveyed.  She  was  now  no  longer 
eloquent  in  words.  But  she  looked  a  deeper  eloquence  by 
far  than  any  words  could  embody.  He  was  now  the 
speaker  ;  and  regarding  him  through  the  favoring  media  of 
kindled  affections,  it  seemed  to  her  ear,  that  there  was  no 
eloquence  so  sweet  as  his.  He  spoke  briefly  of  the  natural 
beauties  by  which  they  were  surrounded. 

"  Trees,  rocks,  the  valley  and  the  hill,  all  realms  of  soli 
tude  and  shade,  inspire  enthusiasm  and  ardor  in  the  imagi 
native  spirit.  They  are  beneficial  for  this  purpose.  For  the 
training  of  a  great  poet  they  are  necessary.  They  have  the 
effect  of  lifting  the  mind  to  the  contemplation  of  vastness, 
depth,  height,  profundity.  This  produces  an  intensity  of 
mood — the  natural  result  of  any  association  between  our 
own  feelings  and  such  objects  as  are  lofty  and  noble  in  the 
external  world.  The  feelings  and  passions  as  they  are  in 
fluenced  by  the  petty  play  of  society,  which  diffuses  their 
power  and  breaks  their  lights  into  little,  become  concen 
trated  on  the  noble  and  tbe  grand.  Serious  earnestness  of 
nature  becomes  habitual — the  heart  flings  itself  into  all  the 
subjects  of  its  interest — it  trifles  with  none — all  its  labors 
become  sacred  in  its  eyes,  and  the  latest  object  of  study 
and  analysis  is  that  which  is  always  most  important.  The 
effect  of  this  training  in  youth  on  the  poetic  mind,  is  to  the 
last  degree  beneficial ;  since,  without  a  degree  of  serious 
ness  amounting  to  intensity — without  a  hearty  faith  in  the 
importance  of  what  is  to  be  done — without  a  passionate 
fullness  of  soul  which  drives  one  to  his  task — there  will  be 
no  truthfulness,  no  eloquence,  no  concentrated  thought  and 
permanent  achievement.  With  you,  dear  Margaret,  such 


310  CHARLEMONT. 

has  already  been  the  effect.  You  shrink  from  the  ordinary 
enjoyments  of  society.  Their  bnld  chat  distresses  you,  as 
the  chatter  of  so  many  jays.  You  prefer  the  solitude  which 
feeds  the  serious  mood  which  you  love,  and  enables  your 
imagination,  unrepressed  by  the  presence  of  shallow  wit 
lings,  to  evoke  its  agents -from  storm  and  shadow — from 
deep  forest  and  lonesome  lake  —  to  minister  to  the  cravings 
of  an  excited  heart,  and  a  soaring  and  ambitious  fancy." 

"  Oh,  how  truly,  Alfred,  do  you  speak  it,"  she  murmured 
as  he  closed. 

"  So  far,  so  good ;  but,  dear  Margaret  —  there  are  other 
subjects  of  study  which  are  equally  necessary  for  the  great 
poet.  The  wild  aspects  of  nature  are  such  as  are  of  use  in 
the  first  years  of  his  probation.  To  grow  up  in  the  woods 
and  among  the  rocks,  so  that  a  hearty  simplicity,  an  ear 
nest  directness,  with  a  constant  habit  of  contemplation 
should  be  permanently  formed,  is  a  first  and  necessary 
object.  But  it  is  in  this  training  as  in  every  other.  There 
are  successive  steps.  There  is  a  law  of  progressive  ad. 
vance.  You  must  not  stop  there.  The  greatest  moral 
study  for  the  poet  must  follow.  This  is  the  study  of  man 
in  society  —  in  the  great  world  —  where  he  puts  on  a  thou 
sand  various  aspects  —  far  other  than  those  which  are  seen 
in  the  country  —  in  correspondence  with  the  thousand 
shapes  of  fortune,  necessity,  or  caprice,  which  attend  him 
there.  Indeed,  it  may  safely  be  said,  that  lie  never  knows 
one  half  of  the  responsibility  of  his.  tasks  who  toils  without 
the  presence  of  those  for  whom  he  toils.  It  is  in  the  neigh 
borhood  of  man  that  we  feel  his  and  our  importance.  It  is 
while  we  are  watching  his  strifes  and  struggles  that  we  see 
the  awful  importance  of  his  destiny  ;  and  the  great  trusts 
of  self,  and  truth,  and  the  future,  which  have  been  delivered 
to  his  hands.  Here  you  do  not  see  man.  You  see  certain 
shapes,  which  are  employed  in  raising  hay,  turnips,  and 
potatoes ;  which  eat  and  drink  very  much  as  man  does ; 
but  which,  as  they  suffer  to  sleep  and  rest  most  of  those 


FALL.  811 

latent  faculties,  the  exercise  of  which  can  alone  establish 
the  superiority  of  the  intellectual  over  the  animal  nature, 
so  they  have  no  more  right  to  the  name  of  man  than  any 
other  of  those  animals  who  eat  as  industriously,  and  sleep 
as  profoundly,  as  themselves.  The  contemplation  of  the 
superior  being,  engaged  in  superior  toils,  awakens  superior 
faculties  in  the  observer.  He  who  sees  nothing  but  the 
gathering  of  turnips  will  think  of  nothing  but  turnips.  As 
we  enlarge  the  sphere  of  our  observation,  the  faculty  of 
thought  becomes  expanded.  You  will  discover  this  won 
derful  change  when  you  go  into  the  world.  Hitherto,  your 
inspirers  have  been  these  groves,  these  rocks,  lakes,  trees, 
and  silent  places.  But,  when  you  sit  amid  crowds  of  bright- 
eyed,  full-minded,  and  admiring  people ;  when  you  see  the 
eyes  of  thousands  looking  for  the  light  to  shine  from  yours  ; 
hanging,  with  a  delight  that  still  hungers,  on  the  words  of 
truth  and  beauty  which  fall  from  your  lips — then,  then 
only,  dearest  Margaret,  will  you  discover  the  true  sources 
of  inspiration  and  of  fame." 

"Ah!"  she  murmured  dcspondingly — "you  daunt  me 
when  you  speak  of  these  crowds — crowds  of  the  intellec 
tual  and  the  wise.  What  should  I  be  —  how  would  I  ap 
pear  among  them  ?" 

"As  you  appear  to  me,  Margaret  —  their  queen,  their 
idol,  their  divinity,  not  less  a  beauty  than  a  muse  ?" 

The  raptures  which  Stevens  expressed  seemed  to  justify 
the  embrace  which  followed  it ;  and  it  was  some  moments 
before  she  again  spoke.  When  she  did  the  same  subject 
was  running  in  her  mind. 

"Ah!  Alfred,  still  I  fear  !" 

'•  Fear  nothing,  Margaret.  It  will  be  as  I  tell  you  —  as 
I  promise  !  If  I  deceive  you,  I  deceive  myself.  Is  it  not 
for  the  wife  of  my  bosom  that  I  expect  this  homage  ?" 

Her  murmurs  were  unheard.  They  strolled  on  — still 
deeper  into  the  mazes  of  the  forest,  and  the  broad  disk  of 


312  CHARLEMONT. 

the  moon,  suddenly  gleaming,  yellow,  through  the  tops  of 
the  trees,  surprised  them  in  their  wanderings. 

"  How  beautiful !"  he  exclaimed.  "  Let  us  sit  here, 
dearest  Margaret.  The  rock  here  is  smooth  and  covered 
with  the  softest  lichen.  A  perfect  carpet  of  it  is  at  our 
feet,  and  the  brooklet  makes  the  sweetest  murmuring  as  it 
glides  onward  through  the  grove,  telling  all  the  while,  like 
some  silly  schoolgirl,  where  you  may  look  for  it.  See  the 
little  drops  of  moonlight  falling  here  and  there  in  the  small 
openings  of  the  forest,  and  lying  upon  the  greensward  like 
so  many  scattered  bits  of  silver.  One  might  take  it  for 
fairy  coin.  And,  do  you  note  the  soft  breeze  that  seems  to 
rise  with  the  moon  as  from  some  Cytherean  isle,  breathing 
of  love,  love  only  —  love  never  perishing  !" 

"  Ah  !  were  it  so,  Alfred  !" 

"  Is  it  not,  Margaret  ?  If  I  could  fancy  that  you  would 
cease  to  love  me  or  I  you  —  could  I  think  that  these  dear 
joys  were  to  end  —  but  no !  no  !  let  us  not  think  of  it.  It 
is  too  sweet  to  believe,  and  the  distrust  seems  as  unholy  as 
it  is  unwholesome.  That  bright  soft  planet  seems  to  per 
suade  to  confidence  as  it  inspires  love.  Do  you  not  feel 
your  heart  soften  in  the  moonlight,  Margaret?  your  eye 
glistens,  dearest —  and  your  heart,  I  know,  must  be  touched. 
It  is  —  I  feel  its  beating !  What  a  tumult,  dear  Margaret, 
is  here !" 

"  Do  not,  do  not !"  she  murmured,  gently  striving  to  dis 
engage  herself  from  his  grasp. 

"No!  no!  —  move  not,  dearest,"  he  replied  in  a  sub 
dued  tone  —  a  murmur  most  like  hers.  "  Are  we  not  hap 
py  ?  Is  there  anything,  dear  Margaret,  which  we  could 
wish  for?" 

"  Nothing  !  nothing  !" 

"  Ah !  what  a  blessed  chance  it  was  that  brought  me  to 
these  hills.  I  never  lived  till  now.  I  had  my  joys,  Mar 
garet  —  my  triumphs !  I  freely  yield  them  to  the  past !  I 
care  for  them  no  more !  They  are  no  longer  joys  or  tri- 


FALL.  313 

umphs !  Yes,  Margaret  you  have  changed  my  heart  with 
in  me.  Even  fame  which  I  so  much  worshipped  is  for 
gotten." 

"  Say  not  that ;  oh,  say  not  that !"  she  exclaimed,  but 
still  in  subdued  accents. 

"  I  must  —  it  is  too  far  true.  I  could  give  up  the  shout 
of  applause  —  the  honor  of  popular  favor  —  the  voice  of  a 
people's  approbation  —  the  shining  display  and  the  golden 
honor  —  all,  dear  Margaret,  sooner  than  part  with  you." 

"  But  you  need  not  give  them  up,  Alfred." 

"  Ah,  dearest,  but  I  have  no  soul  for  them  now.  You 
are  alone  my  soul,  my  saint  —  the  one  dear  object,  desire, 
and  pride,  and  conquest." 

"  Alas  !  and  have  you  not  conquered,  Alfred  ?" 

"  Sweet !  do  I  not  say  that  I  am  content  to  forfeit  all 
honors,  triumphs,  applauses  —  all  that  was  so  dear  to  me 
before  —  and  only  in  the  fond  faith  that  I  had  conquered  ? 
You  are  mine  —  you  tell  me  so  with  your  dear  lips  —  I 
have  you  in  my  fond  embrace  —  ah  !  do  not  talk  to  me  again 
of  fame." 

"  I  were  untrue  to  you  as  to  myself,  dear  Alfred,  did  I 
not.  No  !  with  your  talents,  to  forego  their  uses  —  to  de 
liver  yourself  up  to  love  wholly,  were  as  criminal  as  it 
would  be  unwise." 

"You  shall  be  my  inspiration  then,  dear  Margaret. 
These  lips  shall  send  me  to  the  forum  —  these  eyes  shall 
reward  me  with  smiles  when  I  return.  Your  applause 
shall  be  to  me  a  dearer  triumph  than  all  the  clamors  of  the 
populace." 

"Let  us  return  home  —  it  is  late." 

"  Not  so  !  —  and  why  should  we  go  ?  What  is  sleep  to 
us  but  loss  ?  What  the  dull  hours,  spent  after  the  ordinary 
fashion,  among  ordinary  people.  Could  any  scene  be  more 
beautiful  than  this  —  ah  !  can  any  feeling  be  more  sweet  ? 
Is  it  not  so  to  you,  dearest  ?  tell  me  —  nay,  do  not  tell  me 
—  if  you  love  as  I  do,  you  can  not  leave  me  - —  not  now  — 

14 


314  CHARLEMONT. 

not  thus  —  while  such  is  the  beauty  of  earth  and  heaven  — 
while  such  are  the  rich  joys  clustering  in  our  hearts.  Nay, 
while,  in  that  hallowing  moonlight,  I  gaze  upon  thy  dark 
eyes,  and  streaming  hair,  thy  fair,  beautiful  cheeks,  and 
those  dear  rosy  lips  !" 

"  Oh!  Alfred,  do  not  speak  so  —  do  not  clasp  me  thus. 
Let  us  go.  It  is  late — very  late,  and  what  will  they  say  ?" 

"  Let  them  say !  Are  we  not  blessed  ?  -Can  all  their 
words  take  from  us  these  blessings  —  these  sacred,  sweet, 
moments  —  such  joys,  such  delights  ?  Let  them  dream  of 
such,  with  their  dull  souls  if  they  can.  No !  no !  Mar 
garet —  we  are  one !  and  thus  one,  our  world  is  as  free  from 
their  control  as  it  is  superior  to  their  dreams  and  hopes. 
Here  is  our  heaven,  Margaret  —  ah  !  how  long  shall  it  be 
ours !  at  what  moment  may  we  lose  it,  by  death,  by  storm, 
by  what  various  mischance  !  What  profligacy  to  fly  before 
the  time  !  No !  no  !  but  a  little  while  longer  —  but  a  little 
while !" 

And  there  they  lingered !  He,  fond,  artful,  persuasive  ; 
she,  trembling  with  the  dangerous  sweetness  of  wild,  unbid 
den  emotions.  Ah !  why  did  she  not  go  ?  Why  was  the 
strength  withheld  which  would  have  carried  out  her  safer 
purpose  ?  The  moon  rose  until  she  hung  in  the  zenith, 
seeming  to  linger  there  in  a  sad,  sweet  watch,  like  them 
selves  —  the  rivulet  ran  along,  still  prattling  through  the 
groves ;  the  breeze,  which  had  been  a  soft  murmur  among 
the  trees  at  the  first  rising  of  the  moon,  now  blew  a  shrill 
whistle  among  the  craggy  hills ;  but  they  no  longer  heard 
the  prattle  of  the  rivulet  —  even  the  louder  strains  of  the 
breeze  were  unnoticed,  and  it  was  only  when  they  were 
about  to  depart,  that  poor  Margaret  discovered  that  the 
moon  had  all  the  while  been  looking  down  upon  them. 


THE   BIRTH    OF   THE   AGONY.  315 


CHAPTER   XXVII. 

THE   BIRTH   OF   THE    AGONY. 

IT  was  now  generally  understood  in  Charleraont  that 
Margaret  Cooper  had  made  a  conquest  of  the  handsome 
stranger.  We  have  omitted  —  as  a  matter  not  congenial 
to  our  taste  —  the  small  by-play  which  had  been  carried 
on  by  the  other  damsels  of  the  village  to  eifect  the  same 
object.  There  had  been  setting  of  caps,  without  number, 
ay,  and  pulling  them  too,  an  the  truth  were  known  among 
the  fair  Stellas  and  Clarissas,  the  Daphnes  and  Dorises,  of 
Charlemont,  but,  though  Stevens  was  sufficiently  consider 
ate  of  the  claims  of  each,  so  far  as  politeness  demanded  it, 
and  contrived  to  say  pleasant  things,  pour  passer  le  temps, 
with  all  of  them,  it  was  very  soon  apparent  to  the  most 
sanguine,  that  the  imperial  beauties  and  imperious  mind  of 
Margaret  Cooper  had  secured  the  conquest  for  herself. 

As  a  matter  of  course,  the  personal  and  intellectual  at 
tractions  of  Stevens  underwent  no  little  disparagement  as 
soon  as  this  fact  was  known.  It  was  now  universally  un 
derstood  that  he  was  no  such  great  things,  after  all ;  and 
our  fair  friend  the  widow  Thackeray,  who  was  not  without 
her  pretensions  to  wit  and  beauty,  was  bold  enough  to  say 
that  Mr.  Stevens  was  certainly  too  fat  in  the  face,  and  she 
rather  thought  him  stupid.  Such  an  opinion  gave  courage 
to  the  rest,  and  pert  Miss  Bella  Tompkins,  a  romp  of  first- 
rate  excellence,  had  the  audacity  to  say  that  he  squinted ! 


816  CHARLEMONT. 

—  and  this  opinion  was  very  natural,  since  neither  of  his 
eyes  had  ever  rested  with  satisfaction  on  her  pouting 
charms. 

It  may  be  supposed  that  the  discontent  of  the  fair  bevy, 
and  its  unfavorable  judgment  of  himself,  did  not  reach  the 
ears  of  Alfred  Stevens,  and  would  scarcely  have  disturbed 
them  if  it  did.  Margaret  Cooper  was  more  fortunate  than 
himself  in  this  respect.  She  could  not  altogether  be  insen 
sible  to  the  random  remarks  which  sour  envy  and  dark- 
eyed  jealousy  continued  to  let  fall  in  her  hearing ;  but  her 
scorn  for  the  speakers,  and  her  satisfaction  with  herself, 
secured  her  from  all  annoyance  from  this  cause.  Such,  at 
least,  had  been  the  case  in  the  first  days  of  her  conquest. 
Such  was  not  exactly  the  case  now.  She  had  no  more 
scorn  of  others.  She  was  no  longer  proud,  no  longer  strong. 
Her  eyes  no  longer  flashed  with  haughty  defiance  on  the 
train  which,  though  envious,  were  yet  compelled  to  follow. 
She  could  no  longer  speak  in  those  superior  tones,  the  lan 
guage  equally  of  a  proud  intellect,  and  a  spirit  whose  sen 
sibilities  had  neither  been  touched  by  love  nor  enfeebled  by 
anxiety  and  apprehension.  A  sad  change  had  come  over 
her  heart  and  all  her  features  in  the  progress  of  a  few  days. 
Her  courage  had  departed.  Her  step  was  no  longer  firm  ; 
her  eye  no  longer  uplifted  like  that  of  the  mountain-eagle, 
to  which,  in  the  first  darings  of  her  youthful  muse,  she  had 
boldly  likened  herself.  Her  look  was  downcast,  her  voice 
subdued  ;  she  was  now  not  less  timid  than  the  feeblest  dam 
sel  of  the  village  in  that  doubtful  period  of  life  when,  pas 
sing  from  childhood  to  girlhood,  the  virgin  falters,  as  it 
were,  with  bashful  thoughts,  upon  the  threshold  of  a  new 
and  perilous  condition.  The  intercourse  of  Margaret  Coop 
er  with  her  lover  had  had  the  most  serious  effect  upon  her 
manners  and  her  looks.  But  the  change  upon  her  spirit 
was  no  less  striking  to  all. 

"  I'm  sure  if  I  did  love  any  man,"  was  the  opinion  of  one 
of  the  damsels,  "I'd  die  sooner  than  show  it  to  him,  as  she 


THE   BIRTH   OP   THE   AGONY.  817 

shows  it  to  Alfred  Stevens.  It's  a  guess  what  he  must 
think  of  it." 

"  And  no  hard  guess  neither,"  said  another ;  "  I  reckon 
there's  no  reason  why  he  should  pick  out  Margaret  Cooper, 
except  that  he  saw  that  it  was  no  such  easy  matter  any 
where  else." 

"  Well !  there  can  be  no  mistake  about  it  with  them  ;  for 
now  they're  always  together — and  Betty,  her  own  maid, 
thinks  — but  it's  better  not  to  say  !" 

And  the  prudent  antique  pursed  up  her  mouth  in  a  lan 
guage  that  said  everything. 

"  What !  —  what  does  t  she  say  ?"  demanded  a  dozen 
voices. 

"  Well !  I  won't  tell  you  that.  I  won't  tell  you  all ;  but 
she  does  say,  among  other  things,  that  the  sooner  John 
Cross  marries  them,  the  better  for  all  parties." 

"  Is  it  possible  !" 

«  Can  it  be  !" 

"  Bless  me  !  but  I  always  thought  something  wrong." 

"  And  Betty,  her  own  maid,  told  you  ?  Well,  who  should 
know,  if  she  don't  ?" 

"  And  this,  too,  after  all  her  airs  !" 

"  Her  great  smartness,  her  learning,  and  verse-making ! 
I  never  knew  any  good  come  from  books  yet." 

"  And  never  will,  Jane,"  said  another,  with  an  equivocal 
expression,  with  which  Jane  was  made  content ;  and,  after 
a  full  half-hour's  confabulation,  in  the  primitive  style,  the 
parties  separated — each,  in  her  way,  to  give  as  much  cir 
culation  to  Betty's  inuendoes  as  the  importance  of  the  affair 
deserved. 

Scandal  travels  along  the  highways,  seen  by  all  but  the 
victim.  Days  and  nights  passed ;  and  in  the  solitude  of 
lonely  paths,  by  the  hillside  or  the  rivulet,  Margaret  Cooper 
still  wandered  with  her  lover.  She  heard  not  the  poison 
ous  breath  which  was  already  busy  with  her  virgin  fame. 
She  had  no  doubts,  whatever  might  be  the  event,  that  the 


318  CHARLEMONT. 

heart  of  Alfred  Stevens  could  leave  her  without  that  ali 
ment  which,  in  these  blissful  moments,  seemed  to  be  her 
very  breath  of  life.  But  she  felt  many  fears,  many  misgiv 
ings,  she  knew  not  why.  A  doubt,  a  cloud  of  anxiety,  hung 
brooding  on  the  atmosphere.  In  a  heart  which  is  unso 
phisticated,  the  consciousness,  however  vague,  that  all  is 
not  right,  is  enough  to  produce  this  cloud ;  but,  with  the 
gradual  progress  of  that  heart  to  the  indulgence  of  the  more 
active  passions,  this  consciousness  necessarily  increases,  and 
the  conflict  then  begins  between  the  invading  passion  and  the 
guardian  principle.  We  have  seen  enough  to  know  what 
must  be  the  result  of  such  a  conflict  with  a  nature  such  as 
hers,  under  the  education  which  she  had  received.  It  did 
not  end  in  the  expulsion*  of  her  lover.  It  did  not  end  in  the 
discontinuance  of  those  long  and  frequent  rambles  amid  si 
lence,  and  solitude,  and  shadow.  She  had  not  courage  for 
this ;  and  the  poor,  vain  mother,  flattered  with  the  idea 
that  her  son-in-law 'would  be  a  preacher,  beheld  nothing 
wrong  in  their  nightly  wanderings,  and  suffered  her  daugh 
ter,  in  such  saintly  society,  to  go  forth  without  restraint  or 
rebuke. 

There  was  one  person  in  the  village  who  was  not  satis 
fied  that  Margaret  Cooper  should  fall  a  victim,  either  to 
the  cunning  of  another,  or  to  her  own  passionate  vanity. 
This  was  our  old  friend  Calvert.  He  was  rather  inclined 
to  be  interested  in  the  damsel,  in  spite  of  the  ill  treatment 
of  his  protege,  if  it  were  only  in  consequence  of  the  feel 
ings  with  which  she  had  inspired  him.  It  has  been  seen 
that,  in  the  affair  of  the  duel,  he  was  led  to  regard  the 
stranger  with  an  eye  of  suspicion.  This  feeling  had  been 
further  heightened  by  the  statements  of  Ned  Hinkley, 
which,  however  loose  and  inconclusive,  were  yet  of  a  kind 
to  show  that  there  was  some  mystery  about  Stevens — that 
he  desired  concealment  in  some  respects — a  fact  very 
strongly  inferred  from  his  non-employment  of  the  village 
postoffice,  and  the  supposition — taken  for  true — that  he 


THE   BIRTH   OP   THE   AGONY.  819 

employed  that  of  some  distant  town.  Ned  Hinkley  had 
almost  arrived  at  certainty  in  this  respect;  and  some  small 
particulars  which  seemed  to  bear  on  this  conviction,  which 
he  had  recently  gathered,  taken  in  connection  with  the 
village  scandal  in  reference  to  the  parties,  determined  the 
old  man  to  take  some  steps  in  the  matter  to  forewarn  the 
maiden,  or  at  least  her  mother,  of  the  danger  of  yielding 
too  much  confidence  to  one  of  whom  so  little  was  or  could 
be  known. 

It  was  a  pleasant  afternoon,  arid  Calvert  was  sitting  be 
neath  his  roof-tree,  musing  over  this  very  matter,  when  he 
caught  a  glimpse  of  the  persons  of  whom  he  thought,  as 
cending  one  of  the  distant  hills,  apparently  on  their  way 
to  the  lake.  He  rose  up  instantly,  and,  seizing  his  staff, 
hurried  off  to  see  the  mother  of  the  damsel.  The  matter 
was  one  of  the  nicest  delicacy — not  to  be  undertaken 
lightly — not  to  be  urged  incautiously.  Nothing,  indeed, 
but  a  strong  sense  of  duty  could  have  determined  him  upon 
a  proceeding  likely  to  appear  invidious,  and  which  might 
be  so  readily  construed,  by  a  foolish  woman,  into  an  imper 
tinence.  Though  a  man  naturally  of  quick,  warm  feelings, 
Calvert  had  been  early  taught  to  think  cautiously — in 
deed,  the  modern  phrenologist  would  have  said  that,  in  the 
excess  of  this  prudent  organ  lay  the  grand  weakness  of  his 
moral  nature.  This  delayed  him  in  the  contemplated 
performance  much  longer  than  his  sense  of  its  necessity 
seemed  to  justify.  Having  now  resolved,  however,  and 
secure  in  the  propriety  of  his  object,  he  did  not  scruple 
any  longer. 

A  few  minutes  sufficed  to  bring  him  to  the  cottage  of  the 
old  lady,  and  her  voice  in  very  friendly  tenor  commanded 
him  to  enter.  Without  useless  circumlocution,  yet  without 
bluntness,  the  old  man  broached  the  subject ;  and,  without 
urging  any  of  the  isolated  facts  of  which  he  was  possessed, 
and  by  which  his  suspicions  were  awakened,  he  dwelt  sim 
ply  upon  the  dangers  which  might  result  from  such  a  de- 


320  CHARLEMONT. 

gree  of  confidence  as  was  given  to  the  stranger.  The  long, 
lonely  rambles  in  the  woods,  by  night  as  well  as  day,  were 
commented  on,  justly,  but  in  an  indulgent  spirit ;  and  the 
risks  of  a  young  and  unsuspecting  maiden,  under  such  cir 
cumstances,  were  shown  with  sufficient  distinctness  for  the 
comprehension  of  the  mother,  had  she  been  disposed  to 
hear.  But  never  was  good  old  man,  engaged  in  the  thank 
less  office  of  bestowing  good  advice,  so  completely  con 
founded  as  he  was  by  the  sort  of  acknowledgments  which 
his  interference  obtained.  A  keen  observer  might  have 
seen  the  gathering  storm  while  he  was  speaking ;  and,  at 
every  sentence,  there  was  a  low,  running  commentary,  bub 
bling  up  from  the  throat  of  the  opinionated  dame,  some 
what  like  rumbling  thunder,  which  amply  denoted  the 
rising  tempest.  It  was  a  sort  of  religious  effort  which 
kept  the  old  lady  quiet  till  Calvert  had  fairly  reached  a 
conclusion.  Then,  rising  from  her  seat,  she  approached 
him,  smoothed  back  her  apron,  perked  out  her  chin,  and, 
fixing  her  keen  gray  eyes  firmly  upon  his  own,  with  her 
nose  elongated  to  such  a  degree  as  almost  to  suggest  the 
possibility  of  a  pointed  collision  between  that  member  and 
the  corresponding  one  of  his  own  face,  she  demanded  — 

"  Have  you  done — have  you  got  through  ?" 

"  Yes,  Mrs.  Cooper,  this  is  all  I  came  to  say.  It  is  the 
suggestion  of  prudence — the  caution  of  a  friend — your 
daughter  is  young,  very  young,  and — " 

"  I  thank  you  !  I  thank  you  !  My  daughter  is  young, 
very  young ;  but  she  is  no  fool,  Mr.  Calvert — let  me  tell 
you  that !  Margaret  Cooper  is  no  fool.  If  you  don't  know 
that,  I  do.  I  know  her.  She's  able  to  take  care  of  her 
self  as  well  as  the  best  of  us." 

"  I  am  glad  you  think  so,  Mrs.  Cooper,  but  the  best  of 
us  find  it  a  difficult  matter  to  steer  clear  of  danger,  and 
error  and  misfortune ;  and  the  wisest,  my  dear  madam,  are 
only  too  apt  to  fall  when  they  place  their  chief  reliance  on 
their  wisdom."' 


THE   BIRTH   OP  THE   AGONY.  321 

"  Indeed !  that's  a  new  doctrine  to  me,  and  I  reckon  to 
everybody  else.  If  it's  true,  what's  the  use  of  all  your 
schooling,  I  want  to  know  ?" 

"  Precious  little,  Mrs.  Cooper,  if — " 

"  Ah !  precious  little ;  and  let  me  tell  you,  Mr.  Calvert, 
I  think  it's  mighty  strange  that  you  should  think  Margaret 
Cooper  in  more  need  of  your  advice,  than  Jane  Colter,  or 
Betsy  Barnes,  or  Susan  Mason,  or  Rebecca  Forbes,  or  even 
the  widow  Thackeray." 

"  I  should  give  the  same  advice  to  them  under  the  same 
circumstances,  Mrs.  Cooper." 

"  Should  you,  indeed  !  Then  I  beg  you  will  go  and  give 
it  to  them,  for  if  they  are  not  in  the  same  circumstances 
now,  they'd  give  each  of  them  an  eye  to  be  so.  Ay, 
wouldn't  they  !  Yes  !  don't  I  know,  Mr.  Calvert,  that  it's 
all  owing  to  envy  that  you  come  here  talking  about  Brother 
Stevens." 

"  But  I  do  not  speak  of  Mr.  Stevens,  Mrs.  Cooper  ;  were 
it  any  other  young  man  with  whom  your  daughter  had  such 
intimacy  I  should  speak  in  the  same  manner." 

"  Would  you,  indeed  ?  Tell  that  to  the  potatoes.  Don't 
I  know  better.  Don't  I  know  that  if  your  favorite,  that 
you  made  so  much  of — your  adopted  son,  Bill  Hinkley — 
if  he  could  have  got  her  to  look  at  him,  they  might  have 
walked  all  night  and  you'd  never  have  said  the  first  word. 
He'd  have  given  one  eye  for  her,  and  so  would  every  girl 
in  the  village  give  an  eye  for  Brother  Stevens.  I'm  not 
so  old  but  I  know  something.  But  it  won't  do.  You  can 
go  to  the  widow  Thackeray,  Mr.  Calvert.  It'll  do  her 
good  to  tell  her  that  it's  very  dangerous  for  her  to  be 
thinking  about  young  men  from  morning  to  night.  It's 
true  you  can't  say  anything  about  the  danger,  for  precious 
little  danger  she's  in ;  but,  lord,  wouldn't  she  jump  to  it  if 
she  had  a  chance.  Let  her  alone  for  that.  You'd  soon  have 
cause  enough  to  give  her  your  good  advice  about  the  dan 
ger,  and  much  good  would  come  of  it.  She'd  wish,  after 
14* 


322  CHARLEMONT. 

all  was  said,  that  the  danger  was  only  twice  as  big  and 
twice  as  dangerous." 

Such  was  the  conclusion  of  Mr.  Calvert's  attempt  to  give 
good  counsel.  It  resulted  as  unprofitably  in  this  as  in  most 
cases;  but  it  had  not  utterly  fallen,  like  the  wasted  seed, 
in  stony  places.  There  was  something  in  it  to  impress 
itself  upon  the  memory  of  Mrs.  Cooper ;  and  she  resolved 
that  when  her  daughter  came  in,  it  should  be  the  occasion 
of  an  examination  into  her  feelings  and  her  relation  to  the 
worthy  brother,  such  as  she  had  more  than  once  before 
meditated  to  make. 

But  Margaret  Cooper  did  not  return  till  a  comparatively 
late  hour ;  and  the  necessity  of  sitting  up  after  her  usual 
time  of  retiring,  by  making  the  old  lady  irritable,  had  the 
effect  of  giving  some  additional  force  to  the  suggestions  of 
Mr.  Gal  vert.  When  Margaret  did  return,  she  came  alone. 
Stevens  had  attended  her  only  to  the  wicket.  She  did  not 
expect  to  find  her  mother  still  sitting  up  ;  and  started,  with 
an  appearance  of  disquiet,  when  she  met  her  glance.  The 
young  girl  was  pale  and  haggard.  Her  eye  had  a  dilated, 
wild  expression.  Her  step  faltered  ;  her  voice  was  scarcely 
distinct  as  she  remarked  timidly — 

"  Not  yet  abed,  mother  ?" 

"  No !  it's  a  pretty  time  for  you  to  keep  me  up." 

"  But  why  did  you  sit  up,  mother  ?  It's  not  usual  with 
you  to  do  so." 

"  No !  but  it's  high  time  for  me  to  sit  up,  and  be  on  the 
watch  too,  when  here's  the  neighbors  coming  to  warn  me 
to  do  so — and  telling  me  all  about  your  danger." 

"  Ha !  my  danger — speak — what  danger,  mother  ?" 

"  Don't  you  know  what  danger  ?     Don't  you  know  ?" 

"  Know !"  The  monosyllable  subsided  in  a  gasp.  At 
that  moment  Margaret  Cooper  could  say  no  more. 

"  Well,  I  suppose  you  don't  know,  and  so  I'll  tell  you. 
Here's  been  that  conceited,  stupid  old  man,  Gal  vert,  to  tell 
me  how  wrong  it  is  for  you  to  go  out  by  night  walking  with 


THE   BIRTH   OF   THE   AGONY.  323 

Brother  Stevens ;  and  hinting  to  me  that  you  don't  know- 
how  to  take  care  of  yourself  with  all  your  learning ;  and 
how  nobody  knows  anything  about  Brother  Stevens ;  as  if 
nobody  was  wise  for  anything  but  himself.  But  I  gave  him 
as  good  as  he  brought,  I'll  warrant  you.  I  sent  him  off 
with  a  flea  in  his  ear !" 

It  was  fortunate  for  the  poor  girl  that  the  light,  which 
was  that  of  a  dipped  candle,  was  burning  in  the  corner  of 
the  chimney,  and  was  too  dim  to  make  her  features  visible. 
The  ghastly  tale  which  they  told  could  not  have  been  utterly 
unread  even  by  the  obtuse  and  opinionated  mind  of  the 
vain  mother.  The  hands  of  Margaret  were  involuntarily 
clasped  in  her  agony,  and  she  felt  very  much  like  falling 
upon  the  floor ;  but,  with  a  strong  effort,  her  nerves  were 
braced  to  the  right  tension,  and  she  continued  to  endure, 
in  a  speechless  terror,  which  was  little  short  of  frenzy,  the 
outpourings  of  her  mother's  folly  which  was  a  frenzy  of 
another  sort. 

"  I  sent  him  off,"  she  repeated,  "  with  a  flea  in  his  ear. 
I  could  see  what  the  old  fool  was  driving  after,  and  I  as 
good  as  told  him  so.  If  it  had  been  his  favorite,  his 
adopted  son,  Bill  Hinkley,  it  would  have  been  another 
guess-story  —  I  reckon.  Then  you  might  have  walked  out 
where  you  pleased  together,  at  all  hours,  and  no  harm 
done,  no  danger;  old  Calvert  would  have  thought  it  the 
properest  thing  in  the  world.  But  no  Bill  Hinkley  for  me. 
I'm  for  Brother  Stevens,  Margaret ;  only  make  sure  of  him, 
my  child — make  sure  of  him." 

"  No  more  of  this,  dear  mother,  I  entreat  you.  Let  us 
go  to  bed,  and  think  no  more  of  it." 

"  And  why  should  we  not  think  of  it  ?  I  tell  you,  Mar 
garet,  you  must  think  of  it !  Brother  Stevens  soon  will  be 
a  preacher,  and  a  fine  speck  he  will  be.  There'll  be  no 
parson  like  him  in  all  west  Kientu.cky.  As  for  John  Cross, 
I  reckon  he  won't  be  able  to  hold  a  candle  to  him.  Brother 
Stevens  is  something  to  try  for.  You  must  play  your  cards 


324  CHARLEMOXT. 

nicely,  Margaret.  Don't  let  him  sec  too  soon  that  you  like 
him.  Beware  of  that !  But  don't  draw  off  too  suddenly 
as  if  you  didn't  like  him — that's  worse  still ;  for  very  few 
men  like  to  see  that  they  ain't  altogether  pleasing  even  at 
first  sight  to  the  lady  that  they  like.  There's  a  medium  in 
all  things,  and  you  must  just  manage  it,  as  if  you  wa'n't 
thinking  at  all  about  him,  or  love,  or  a  husband,  or  any 
thing  ;  only  take  care  always  to  turn  a  quick  ear  to  what 
he  says,  and  seem  to  consider  it  always  as  if  'twas  worth 
your  considering.  And  look  round  when  he  speaks,  and 
smile  softly  sometimes ;  and  don't  be  too  full  of  learning 
and  wisdom  in  what  you  say,  for  I've  found  that  men  of 
sense  love  women  best  when  they  seem  to  talk  most  like 
very  young  children  —  maybe  because  they  think  it's  a  sign 
of  innocence.  But  I  reckon,  Margaret,  you  don't  want 
much  teaching.  Only  be  sure  and  fix  him ;  and  don't  stop 
to  think  when  he  asks.  Be  sure  to  have  your  answer  ready, 
and  you  can't  say  '  yes'  too  quickly  now-a-days,  when  the 
chances  are  so  very  few." 

The  mother  paused  to  take  breath.  Her  very  moral  and 
maternal  counsel  had  fallen  upon  unheeding  ears.  But 
Margaret  was  sensible  of  the  pause,  and  was  desirous  of 
taking  advantage  of  it.  She  rose  from  her  chair,  with  the 
view  of  retiring  ;  but  the  good  old  dame,  whose  imagination 
had  been  terribly  excited  by  the  delightful  idea  of  having 
a  preacher  for  her  son-in-law  who  was  to  take  such  prece 
dence  over  all  the  leaders  of  the  other  tribes,  was  not  wil 
ling  to  abridge  her  eloquence. 

"  Why,  you're  in  &  great  hurry  now,  Margaret.  Where 
was  your  hurry  when  you  were  with  Brother  Stevens? 
Ah!  you  jade,  can't  I  guess — don't  I  know?  There  you 
were,  you  two,  under  the  trees,  looking  at  the  moon,  and 
talking  such  sweet,  foolish  nonsense.  I  reckon,  Margaret, 
'twould  puzzle  you  to  tell  what  he  said,  or  what  you  said, 
I  can  guess  he  didn't  talk  much  religion  to  you,  heh  ?  Ah ! 
I  know  it  all.  It's  the  old  story.  It's  been  so  with  all 


THE   BIRTH    OF   THE   AGONY.  325 

young  people,  and  will  be  so  till  the  end.  Love  is  the 
strangest  thing,  and  it  does  listen  to  the  strangest  non 
sense.  Ain't  it  so,  Margaret  ?  I  know  nothing  but  love 
would  ever  dumbfounder  you  in  this  way  ;  why,  child,  have 
you  lost  your  tongue  ?  What's  the  matter  with  you  ?" 

"  Oh,  mother,  let  me  retire  now,  I  have  such  a  headache." 

"  Heartache,  you  mean." 

"  Heartache  it  is,"  replied  the  other  desperately,  with 
an  air  of  complete  abandonment. 

"  Ah  !  well,  it's  clear  that  he's  got  the  heartache  quite 
as  much  as  you,  for  he  almost  lives  with  you  now.  But 
make  him  speak  out,  Margaret — get  him  to  say  the  word, 
and  don't  let  him  be  too  free  until  he  does.  No  squeezing 
of  hands,  no  kissing,  no — " 

"  No  more,  no  more,  I  entreat  you,  mother,  if  you  would 
not  drive  me  mad  !  Why  do  you  speak  to  me  thus  —  why 
counsel  me  in  this  manner  ?  Leave  me  alone,  I  pray  you, 
let  me  retire — I  must — I  must  sleep  now!" 

The  mother  was  not  unaccustomed  to  such  passionate 
bursts  of  speech  from  her  daughter,  and  she  ascribed  the 
startling  energy  of  her  utterance  now,  to  an  excited  spirit 
in  part,  and  partly  to  the  headache  of  which  she  complained. 

"  What !  do  you  feel  so  bad,  my  child  ?  Well,  I  won't 
keep  you  up  any  longer.  I  wouldn't  have  kept  you  up  so 
long,  if  I  hadn't  been  vexed  by  that  old  fool,  Calvert." 

"  Mr.  Calvert  is  a  good  man,  mother." 

"Well,  he  may  be — I  don't  say  a  word  against  that," 
replied  the  mother,  somewhat  surprised  at  the  mildly  re 
proachful  nature  of  that  response  which  her  daughter  had 
made,  so  different  from  her  usual  custom: — "he  may  be 
very  good,  but  I  think  he's  very  meddlesome  to  come  here 
talking  about  Brother  Stevens." 

"  He  meant  well,  mother." 

"  Well  or  ill,  it  don't  matter.  Do  you  be  ready  when 
Brother  Stevens  says  the  word.  He'll  say  it  before  long. 
He's  mighty  keen  after  you,  Margaret.  I've  seen  it  in  his 


326  CHARLEMONT. 

eyes ;  only  you  keep  a  little  off,  till  he  begins  to  press  and 
be  anxious;  and  after  that  he  can't  help  himself.  He'll 
be  ready  for  any  terms  ;  and  look  you,  when  a  man's  ready, 
none  of  your  long  bargains.  Settle  up  at  once.  As  for 
waiting  till  he  gets  permission  to  preach,  I  wouldn't  think 
of  it.  A  man  can  be  made  a  preacher  or  anything,  at  any 
time,  but  'tain't  so  easy  in  these  times,  for  a  young  woman 
to  be  made  a  wife.  It's  not  every  day  that  one  can  get  a 
husband,  and  such  a  husband  !  Look  at  Jane  Colter,  and 
Betsy  Barnes,  and  Rebecca  Forbes,  and  Susan  Mason ; 
they'll  be  green  again,  I  reckon,  before  the  chance  comes 
to  them ;  ay,  and  the  widow  Thackeray — though  she's  had 
her  day  already.  If  'twas  a  short  one  she's  got  no  reason 
to  complain.  She'll  learn  how  to  value  it  before  it  begins 
again.  But,  go  to  bed,  my  child,  you  oughtn't  to  have  a 
headache.  No  !  no  !  you  should  leave  it  to  them  that's  not 
so  fortunate.  They'll  have  headaches  and  heartaches 
enough,  I  warrant  you,  before  they  get  such  a  man  as 
Brother  Stevens." 

At  last,  Margaret  Cooper  found  herself  alone  and  in  her 
chamber.  "With  unusual  vigilance  she  locked  and  double- 
locked  the  door.  She  then  flung  herself  upon  the  bed. 
Her  face  was  buried  in  the  clothes.  A  convulsion  of  feel 
ing  shook  her  frame.  But  her  eyes  remained  dry,  and  her 
cheeks  were  burning.  She  rose  at  length  and  began  to 
undress,  but  for  this  she  found  herself  unequal.  She  en 
tered  the  couch  and  sat  up  in  it — her  hands  crossed  upon 
her  lap — her  face  wan,  wild,  the  very  picture  of  hopeless 
ness  if  not  desperation !  The  words  of  her  weak  mother 
had  tortured  her ;  but  what  was  this  agony  to  that  which 
was  occasioned  by  her  own  thoughts. 

"  Oh  God !"  she  exclaimed  at  length,  "  can  it  be  real  ? 
Can  it  be  true  ?  Do  I  wake  ?  Is  it  no  dream  ?  Am  I, 
am  I  what  I  dare  not  name  to  myself — and  dread  to  hear 
from  any  other  ?  Alas  !  it  is  true — too  true.  That  shade, 
that  wood ! — oh,  Alfred  Stevens !  Alfred  Stevens  !  What 
have  you  done  !  To  what  have  you  beguiled  me !" 


STRENGTH  AFTER  FALL.  327 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

STRENGTH   AFTER   FALL. 

THAT  weary  night  no  sleep  came  to  the  eyelids  of  the 
hapless  Margaret  Cooper.  The  garrulous  language  of  the 
mother  had  awakened  far  other  emotions  in  her  bosom  than 
those  which  she  labored  to  inspire ;  and  the  warning  of 
Mr.  Calvert,  for  the  first  time  impressed  upon  herself  the 
terrible  conviction  that  she  was  lost.  In  the  wild  intoxica 
ting  pleasures  of  that  new  strange  dream,  she  had  been 
wofully  unconscious  of  the  truth.  So  gradual  had  been  the 
progress  of  passion,  that  it  had  never  alarmed  or  startled 
her.  Besides,  it  had  come  to  her  under  a  disguise  afforded 
by  the  customary  cravings  of  her  soul.  Her  vanity  had 
been  the  medium  by  which  her  affections  had  been  won,  by 
which  her  confidence  had  been  beguiled,  by  which  the  guar 
dian  watchers  of  her  virtue  had  been  laid  to  sleep. 

What  a  long  and  dreadful  night  was  that  when  Margaret 
Cooper  was  first  brought  to  feel  the  awful  truth  in  its  true 
impressiveness  of  wo.  Alas  !  how  terribly  do  the  pleasures 
of  sin  torture  us.  The  worst  human  foe  is  guilt.  The 
severest  censure  the  consciousness  of  wrong  doing.  Pov 
erty  may  be  endured — nay  is — arid  virtue  still  be  secure  ; 
since  the  mind  may  be  made  strong  to  endure  the  heaviest 
toil,  yet  cherish  few  desires ;  the  loss  of  kin  may  call  for 
few  regrets,  if  we  feel  that  we  have  religiously  performed 
our  duties  toward  them,  and  requited  all  their  proper  claims 
upon  us.  Sickness  and  pain  may  even  prove  benefits  and 


328  CHARLEMONT. 

blessings,  if  it  shall  so  happen  that  we  resign  ourselves 
without  complaint,  to  the  scourge  of  the .  chastener,  and 
grow  patient  beneath  his  stripes.  But  that  self-rebuke  of 
one's  own  spirit  from  which  we  may  not  fly — that  remorse 
ful  and  ever-vexing  presence  which  haunts  us,  and  pursues 
with  a  wing  even  more  fleet  than  that  of  fear — which  tells 
clamorously  of  what  we  had,  and  scornfully  of  what  we 
have  lost — lost  for  ever!  that  is  the  demon  from  whom 
there  is  no  escape,  and  beyond  whom  there  is  no  torture. 
Vainly  would  we  strive  with  this  relentless  enemy.  Every 
blow  aimed  at  its  shadowy  bosom  recoils  upon  our  own. 
In  the  crowd,  it  takes  the  place  of  other  forms  and  dogs  us 
with  suspicious  glances  ;  in  the  solitude,  it  stalks  boldly  to 
our  side,  confronts  us  with  its  audacious  truths  and  terri 
ble  denunciations  —  leaves  no  moment  secure,  waking  or 
sleeping !  It  is  the  ghost  of  murdered  virtue,  brooding 
over  its  grave  in  that  most  dark  and  dismal  of  all  sepul 
chres,  the  human  heart.  And  if  we  cry  aloud,  as  did  Mar 
garet  Cooper,  with  vain  prayer  for  the  recall  of  a  single 
day,  with  what  a  yell  of  derisive  mockery  it  answers  to  our 
prayer. 

The  night  was  passed  in  the  delusive  effort  of  the  mind 
to  argue  itself  into  a  state  of  fancied  security.  She  endeav 
ored  to  recall  those  characteristics  in  Alfred  Stevens,  by 
which  her  confidence  had  been  beguiled.  This  task  was 
not  a  difficult  one  in  that  early  day  of  her  distress ;  before 
experience  had  yet  come  to  confirm  the  apprehensions  of 
doubt — before  the  intoxicating  dream  of  a  first  passion  had 
yet  begun  to  stale  upon  her  imagination.  Her  own  elastic 
mind  helped  her  in  this  endeavor.  Surely,  she  thought, 
where  the  mind  is  so  noble  and  expansive,  where  the  feel 
ings  are  so  tender  and  devoted,  the  features  so  lofty  and 
impressive,  the  look  so  sweet,  the  language  so  delicate  and 
refined,  there  can  be  no  falsehood. 

"  The  devotion  of  such  a  man,"  she  erringly  thought, 
"might  well  sanction  the  weakness  of  a  woman's  heart— 


STRENGTH   AFTER   FALL.  329 

might  well  persuade  to  the  momentary  error  which  none 
will  seek  more  readily  to  repair  than  himself.  If  he  be 
true  to  me,  what  indeed  should  I  care  for  the  scorn  of 
others." 

Alas !  for  the  credulous  victim.  This  was  the  soul  of 
her  error.  This  scorn  of  others  —  of  the  opinions  of  the 
world  around  her,  is  the  saddest  error  of  which  woman, 
who  is  the  most  dependant  of  all  beings  in  the  moral  world, 
can  ever  be  guilty.  But  such  philosophy  did  not  now  de 
ceive  even  the  poor  girl  by  whom  it  was  uttered.  It  is  a 
melancholy  truth,  that,  where  there  is  no  principle,  the  pas 
sions  can  not  be  relied  on ;  and  the  love  of  Alfred  Stevens 
had  hitherto  shown  itself  in  selfishness.  Margaret  Cooper 
felt  this,  but  she  did  not  dare  to  believe  it. 

"No!  no!"  she  muttered  — "  I  will  not  doubt — I  will 
not  fear !  He  is  too  noble,  too  generous,  too  fond  !  I  could 
not  be  deceived." 

Her  reliance  was  upon  her  previous  judgment,  not  upon 
his  principles.  Her  self-esteem  assisted  to  make  this  ref 
erence  sufficient  for  the  purposes  of  consolation,  and  this 
was  all  that  she  desired  in  this  first  moment  of  her  doubt 
and  apprehension. 

u  And  if  he  be  true  —  if  he  keep  for  ever  the  faith  that 
his  lips  and  looks  declare — then  will  I  heed  nothing  of  the 
shame  and  the  sin.  The  love  of  such  a  man  is  sufficient 
recompense  for  the  loss  of  all  besides.  What  to  me  is  the 
loss  of  society  ?  what  should  I  care  for  the  association  and 
opinions  of  these  in  Charlemont  ?  And  elsewhere — he  will 
bear  me  hence  where  none  can  know.  Ah !  I  fear  not :  he 
will  be  true." 

Her  self-esteem  was  recovering  considerably  from  its 
first  overthrow.  Her  mind  was  already  preparing  to  do 
battle  with  those,  the  scorn  of  whom  she  anticipated,  and 
whose  judgments  she  had  always  hitherto  despised.  This 
was  an  easy  task.  She  was  yet  to  find  that  it  was  not  the 
only  task.  Her  thoughts  are  those  of  many,  in  like  situa- 


330  CHARLEMONT. 

tions,  and  it  is  for  this  reason  that  we  dwell  upon  them. 
Our  purpose  is,  to  show  the  usual  processes  of  self-decep 
tion. 

Margaret  Cooper,  like  a  large  class  of  persons  of  strong 
natural  mind  and  sanguine  temper,  was  only  too  apt  to  con 
found  the  cause  of  virtue  with  its  sometimes  uncouth,  harsh, 
and  self-appointed  professors.  She  overlooked  the  fact 
that  public  opinion,  though  a  moral  object  against  which 
woman  dares  not  often  offend,  is  yet  no  standard  for  her 
government ;  that  principles  are  determinate  elsewhere ; 
and  that,  whatever  the  world  may  think  of  them,  and  what 
ever  may  be  their  seeming  unimportance  under  existing 
circumstances,  are  the  only  real  moral  securities  of  earth. 
She  might  fly  from  Charlemont,  either  into  a  greater  world, 
or  into  a  more  complete  solitude,  but  she  would  fly  to  no 
greater  certainties  than  she  now  possessed.  Her  securi 
ties  were  still  based  upon  the  principles  of  Alfred  Stevens, 
and  of  these  she  knew  nothing.  She  knew  that  he  was  a 
man  of  talent — of  eloquence  ;  alas  for  her !  she  had  felt  it ; 
of  skill  —  she  had  been  its  victim  ;  of  rare  sweetness  of  ut 
terance,  of  grace  and  beauty ;  and  as  she  enumerated  to 
herself  these  his  mental  powers  and  personal  charms,  she 
felt,  however  numerous  the  catalogue,  that  none  of  these 
afforded  her  the  guaranty  she  sought. 

She  arose  the  next  day  somewhat  more  composed,  and 
with  a  face  which  betrayed  sleeplessness,  but  nothing  worse. 
This  she  ascribed  to  the  headache  with  which  she  had  re 
tired.  She  had  not  slept  an  instant,  and  she  arose  entirely 
unrefreshed.  But  the  stimulating  thoughts  which  had  kept 
her  wakeful,  furnished  her  with  sufficient  strength  to  appear 
as  usual  in  the  household,  and  to  go  through  her  accustomed 
duties.  But  it  was  with  an  impatience  scarcely  restrain- 
able  that  she  waited  for  the  approach  of  evening  which 
would  bring  her  lover.  Him  she  felt  it  now  absolutely  of 
the  last  necessity  that  she  should  see  ;  that  she  should  once 
more  go  with  him  to  those  secret  places,  the  very  thought 


STRENGTH  AFTER  FALL.  331 

of  which  inspired  her  with  terror,  and.  laying  bare  her  soul 
to  his  eyes,  demand  of  him  the  only  restitution  which  he 
could  make. 

He  came.  Once  more  she  descended  the  steps  to  meet 
him.  Her  mother  arrested  her  on  the  stairway.  A  cun 
ning  leer  was  in  her  eye,  as  she  looked  into  the  woful, 
impassive  eyes  of  her  daughter.  She  grinned  with  a  sort 
of  delight  expressive  of  the  conviction  that  the  advice  she 
had  given  the  night  before  was  to  be  put  in  execution  soon. 

"  Fix  him,  Margaret ;  he's  mighty  eager  for  you.  You've 
cut  your  eye-tooth — be  quick,  and  you'll  have  a  famous 
parson  for  a  husband  yet." 

The  girl  shrunk  from  the  counsellor  as  if  she  had  been  a 
serpent.  The  very  counsel  was  enough  to  show  her  the 
humiliating  attitude  in  which  she  stood  to  all  parties. 

"  Remember,''  said  the  old  woman,  detaining  her — "  don't 
be  too  willing  at  first.  Let  him  speak  fairly  out.  A  young- 
maiden  can't  be  too  backward,  until  the  man  offers  to  make 
her  a  young  wife !" 

The  last  words  went  to  her  soul  like  an  arrow. 

"A  young  maiden  !"  she  almost  murmured  aloud,  as  she 
descended  the  steps — "0  God!  how  lovely  now,  to  my 
eyes,  appears  the  loveliness  of  a  young  maiden !" 

She  joined  Stevens  in  silence,  the  mother  watching  them 
with  the  eyes  of  a  maternal  hawk  as  they  went  forth  to 
gether.  They  pursued  a  customary  route,  and,  passing 
through  one  of  the  gorges  of  the  surrounding  hills,  they 
soon  lost  sight  of  the  village.  When  the  forest-shadows 
had  gathered  thickly  around  them,  and  the  silence  of  the 
woods  became  felt,  Stevens  approached  more  nearly,  and, 
renewing  a  former  liberty,  put  his  arm  about  her  waist. 
She  gently  but  firmly  removed  it,  but  neither  of  them  spoke 
a  word.  A  dense  copse  appeared  before  them.  Toward 
it  he  would  have  led  the  way.  But  she  resolutely  turned 
aside,  and,  while  a  shudder  passed  over  her  frame,  ex 
claimed — 


332  CHABLEMONT. 

"Not  there  — not  there!" 

Breathlessly  she  spoke.  He  well  enough  understood  her. 
They  pursued  an  opposite  direction,  and,  in  the  shade  of  a 
wood  which  before  they  had  never  traversed,  they  at  length 
paused.  Stevens,  conducting  her  to  the  trunk  of  a  fallen 
tree,  seated  her,  and  placed  himself  beside  her.  Still  they 
were  silent.  There  was  a  visible  constraint  upon  both. 
The  thoughts  and  feelings  of  both  were  alike  active — but 
very  unlike  in  character.  "With  him,  passion,  reckless  pas 
sion,  was  uppermost ;  selfish  in  all  its  phases,  and  resolute 
on  its  own  indulgence  at  every  hazard.  In  her  bosom  was 
regret  if  not  remorse,  mingled  with  doubts  and  hopes  in 
pretty  equal  proportion.  Yet  had  she,  even  then,  but  little 
doubt  of  him.  She  accused  him  of  no  practice.  She  fan 
cied,  foolish  girl,  that  his  error,  like  her  own,  had  been 
that  of  blind  impulse,  availing  itself  of  a  moment  of  un 
guarded  reason  to  take  temporary  possession  of  the  citadel 
of  prudence.  That  he  was  calculating,  cunning — that  his 
snares  had  been  laid  beforehand  —  she  had  not  the  least 
idea.  But  she  was  to  grow  wiser  in  this  and  other  respects 
in  due  season.  How  little  did  she  then  conjecture  the  cold 
ness  and  hardness  of  that  base  and  selfish  heart  which  had 
so  fanned  the  consuming  flame  in  hers ! 

Her  reserve  and  coolness  were  unusual.  She  had  been 
the  creature,  heretofore,  of  the  most  uncalculating  impulse. 
The  feeling  was  spoken,  the  thought  uttered,  as  soon  as 
conceived.  Now  she  was  silent.  He  expected  her  to 
speak — nay,  he  expected  reproaches,  and  was  prepared  to 
meet  them.  He  had  his  answer  for  any  reproaches  which 
she  might  make.  But  for  that  stony  silence  of  her  lips  he 
was  not  prepared.  The  passive  grief  which  her  counte 
nance  betrayed  —  so  like  despair — repelled  and  annoyed 
him.  Yet,  wherefore  had  she  come,  if  not  to  complain 
bitterly,  and,  after  exhaustion,  be  soothed  at  last  ?  Such 
had  been  his  usual  experience  in  all  such  cases.  But  the 
unsophisticated  woman  before  him  had  no  language  for  such 


STRENGTH  AFTER  FALL.  333 

a  situation  as  was  hers.  Pier  pride,  her  ambition — the 
very  intensity  of  all  her  moods — rendered  the  effort  at 
speech  a  mockery,  and  left  her  dumb. 

"You  are  sad,  Margaret  —  silent  and  very  cold  to  me," 
he  said,  at  last  breaking  the  silence.  His  tones  were  sub 
dued  to  a  whisper,  and  how  full  of  entreating  tenderness ! 
She  slowly  raised  her  eyes  from  the  ground,  and  fixed  them 
upon  him.  What  a  speech  was  in  that  one  look  !  There 
was  no  trace  of  excitement,  scarcely  of  expression,  in  her 
face.  There  was  no  flush  upon  her  cheeks.  She  was  pale 
as  death.  She  was  still  silent.  Her  eye  alone  had  spo 
ken  ;  and  from  its  searching  but  stony  glance  .his  own  fell 
in  some  confusion  to  the  ground.  There  was  a  dreary 
pause,  which  he  at  length  broke  : — 

"You  are  still  silent,  Margaret — why  do  you  not  speak 
to  me  ?" 

"  It  is  for  you  to  speak,  Alfred,"  was  her  reply.  It  was 
full  of  significance,  understood  but  not  felt  by  her  compan 
ion.  What,  indeed,  had  she  to  say  —  what  could  she  say 
— while  he  said  nothing  ?  She  was  the  victim.  With  him 
lay  the  means  of  rescue  and  preservation.  She  but  waited 
the  decision  of  one  whom,  in  her  momentary  madness,  she 
had  made  the  arbiter  of  her  destiny.  Her  reply  confused 
him.  He  would  have  preferred  to  listen  to  the  ordinary 
language  of  reproach.  Had  she  burst  forth  into  tears  and 
lamentations — had  she  cried,  "You  have  wronged  me  — 
you  must  do  me  justice!" — he  would  have  been  better 
pleased  than  with  the  stern,  unsuggestive  character  that 
she  assumed.  To  all  this,  his  old  experience  would  have 
given  him  an  easy  answer.  But  to  be  driven  to  condemn 
himself — to  define  his  own  doings  with  the  name  due  to 
his  deserts  —  to  declare  his  crime,  and  proffer  the  sufficient 
atonement — was  an  unlooked-for  necessity. 

"  You  are  displeased  with  me,  Margaret." 

He  dared  not  meet  her  glance  while  uttering  this  feeble 
and  purposeless  remark.  It  was  so  short  of  all  that  he 


334  CHARLEMONT. 

should  have  said — of  all  that  she  expected — that  her  eyes 
glistened  with  a  sudden  expression  of  indignation  which 
was  new  to  them  in  looking  upon  him.  There  was  a  glit 
tering  sarcasm  in  her  glance,  which  showed  the  intensity 
of  her  feelings  in  the  comment  which  they  involuntarily 
made  on  the  baldness  and  poverty  of  his.  Displeasure,  in 
deed  !  That  such  an  epithet  should  be  employed  to  describe 
the  withering  pang,  the  vulturous,  gnawing  torture  in  her 
bosom — and  that  fiery  fang  which  thought,  like  some 
winged  serpent,  was  momentarily  darting  into  her  brain ! 

"  Displeased  !"  she  exclaimed,  in  low,  bitter  tones,  which 
she  seemed  rather  desirous  to  suppress  — "  no,  no  !  sir  — 
not  displeased.  I  am  miserable,  most  miserable  —  anything 
but  displeased.  I  am  too  wretched  to  feel  displeasure !" 

"  And  to  me  you  owe  this  wretchedness,  dear  Margaret 
—  that — that  is  what  you  would  say.  Is  it  not,  Margaret  ? 
I  have  wronged  —  I  have  ruined  you  !  From  me  comes 
this  misery !  You  hate,  you  would  denounce  me." 

He  put  his  arm  about  her  waist — he  sank  upon  his  knee 
beside  her — his  eye,  now  that  he  had  found  words,  could 
once  more  look  courageously  into  hers. 

"  Wronged — ruined  !"  she  murmured,  using  a  part  of  his 
words,  and  repeating  them  as  if  she  did  not  altogether  re 
alize  their  perfect  sense. 

"  Ay,  you  would  accuse  me,  Margaret,"  he  continued  — 
"  you  would  reproach  and  denounce  me — you  hate  me — I 
deserve  it — I  deserve  it." 

She  answered  with  some  surprise :  — 

"  No,  Alfred  Stevens,  I  do  not  accuse — I  do  not  denounce 
you.  I  am  wretched — I  am  miserable.  It  is  for  you  to 
say  if  I  am  wronged  and  ruined.  I  am  not  what  I  was — I 
know  that  /—What  I  am— what  I  will  be  !— 

She  paused  !  Her  hands  were  clasped  suddenly  and  vio 
lently —  she  looked  to  heaven,  and,  for  the  first  time,  the 
tears,  streamed  from  her  eyes  like  rain — a  sudden,  heavy 
shower,  which  was  soon  over. 


STRENGTH  AFTER  FALL.  835 

"  Ah,  Margaret,  you  would  have  me  accuse  myself — 
and  I  do.  The  crime  is  mine !  I  have  done  you  this 
wrong " 

She  interrupted  him. 

"  No,  Alfred  Stevens,  /have  done  wrong  !  I  feel  that  I 
have  done  wrong.  That  I  have  been  feeble  and  criminal, 
I  know.  I  will  not  be  so  base  as  to  deny  what  I  can  not  but 
feel.  As  for  your  crime,  you  know  best  what  it  is.  I  know 
mine.  I  know  that  my  passions  are  evil  and  presumptuous  ; 
and  though  I  blush  to  confess  their  force,  it  is  yet  due  to 
the  truth  that  I  should  do  so,  though  I  sink  into  the  earth 
with  my  shame.  But  neither  your  self-reproaches  nor  my 
confession  will  acquit  us.  Is  there  nothing,  Alfred  Stevens, 
that  can  be  done  ?  Must  I  fall  before  you,  here,  amidst 
the  woods  which  have  witnessed  my  shame,  and  implore 
you  to  save  me  ?  I  do  !  Behold  me  !  I  am  at  your  feet 
—  my  face  is  in  the  dust.  Oh!  Alfred  Stevens — when  I 
called  your  eyes  to  watch,  in  the  day  of  my  pride,  the 
strong-winged  eagle  of  our  hills,  did  I  look  as  now  ?  Save 
me  from  this  shame  !  save  me  !  For,  though  I  have  no  re 
proaches,  yet  God  knows,  when  we  looked  on  that  eagle's 
liight  together,  my  soul  had  no  such  taint  as  fills  it  now. 
Whatever  were  my  faults,  my  follies,  my  weaknesses, 
Heaven  knows,  I  felt  not,  feared  not  this  !  a  thought — a 
dream  of  such  a  passion,  then — never  came  to  my  bosom. 
From  you  it  came  !  You  put  it  there  !  You  woke  up  the 
slumbering  emotion — you  —  but  no!  —  I  will  not  accuse 
you  !  I  will  only  implore  you  to  save  me  !  Can  it  be  done  ? 
can  you  do  it  —  will  you  —  will  you  not  ?" 

"Rise,  dearest  Margaret  —  let  me  lift  you!"  She  had 
thrown  herself  upon  the  earth,  and  she  clung  to  it. 

"  No,  no  !  your  words  may  lift  me,  Alfred  Stevens,  when 
your  hands  can  not.  If  you  speak  a  hope,  a  promise  of 
safety,  it  will  need  no  other  help  to  make  me  rise  !  If  you 
do  not !  —  I  would  not  wish  to  rise  again.  Speak  !  let  me 
hear,  even  as  I  am,  what  my  doom  shall  be  ?  The  pride 


336  CHARLEMONT. 

which  has  made  me  fall  shall  be  reconciled  to  my  abase 
ment." 

"  Margaret,  this  despair  is  idle.  There  is  no  need  for  it. 
Do  I  not  tell  you  that  there  is  no  danger  ?" 

"  Why  did  you  speak  of  ruin  ?"  she  demanded. 

"  I  know  not — the  word  escaped  me.  There  is  no  ruin. 
I  will  save  you.  I  am  yours — yours  only.  Believe  me,  I 
will  do  you  right.  I  regard  you  as  sacredly  my  wife  as  if 
the  rites  of  the  church  had  so  decreed  it." 

"  I  dare  not  disbelieve  you,  Alfred !  1  have  no  hope 
else.  Your  words  lift  me  !  Oh  !  Alfred  Stevens,  you  did 
not  mean  the  word,  but  how  true  it  was ;  what  a  wreck, 
what  a  ruin  do  I  feel  myself  now — what  a  wreck  have  I 
become  !" 

"  A  wreck,  a  ruin  !  no,  Margaret,  no  !  never  were  you 
more  beautiful  than  at  this  very  moment.  These  large,  sad 
eyes — these  long,  dark  lashes  seem  intended  to  bear  the 
weight  of  tears.  These  cheeks  are  something  paler  than 
their  wont,  but  not  less  beautiful,  and  these  lips- 
He  would  have  pressed  them  with  his  own — he  would 
have  taken  her  into  his  arms,  but  she  repulsed  him. 

"  No,  no  !  Alfred — this  must  not  be.  I  am  yours.  Let 
me  prove  to  you  that  I  am  firm  enough  to  protect  your  rights 
from  invasion." 

"  But  why  so  coy,  dearest  ?     Do  you  doubt  me  ?" 

"Heaven  forbid!" 

"  Ah  !  but  you  do.  Why  do  you  shrink  from  me — why 
this  coldness  ?  If  you  are  mine,  if  these  charms  are  mine, 
why  not  yield  them  to  me  ?  I  fear,  Margaret,  that  you 
doubt  me  still  ?" 

"  I  do  not — dare  not  doubt  you,  Alfred  Stevens.  My 
life  hangs  upon  this  faith." 

"  Why  so  cold,  then  ?" 

"  I  am  not  cold.  I  love  you — I  will  be  your  wife  ;  and 
never  was  wife  more  faithful,  more  devoted,  than  I  will  be 
to  you ;  but,  if  you  knew  the  dreadful  agony  which  I  have 


STRENGTH  AFTER  FALL.  337 

felt,  since  that  sad  moment  of  my  weakness,  you  would  for 
bear  and  pity  me." 

"  Hear  me,  Margaret ;  to-morrow  is  Saturday.  John 
Cross  is  to  be  here  in  the  evening.  He  shall  marry  us  on 
Sunday.  Are  you  willing  ?" 

"  Oh,  yes!  thankful,  happy!  Ah!  Alfred,  why  did  I 
distrust  you  for  an  instant  ?" 

"  Why,  indeed  !  But  you  distrust  me  no  longer — you 
have  no  more  misgivings  ?" 

"  No,  none !" 

"  You  will  be  no  longer  cold,  no  longer  coy,  dear  Mar 
garet —  here  in  the  sweet  evening,  among  these  pleasant 
shades,  love,  alone,  has  supremacy.  Here,  in  the  words  of 
one  of  your  favorites  :  — 

"  '  Where  transport  and  security  entwine, 
Here  is  the  empire  of  thy  perfect  bliss, 
And  here  thou  art  a  god ' " 

concluding  this  quotation,  he  would  have  taken  her  in  his 
embrace — he  would  have  renewed  those  dangerous  endear 
ments  which  had  already  proved  so  fatal ;  but  she  repulsed 
the  offered  tenderness,  firmly,  but  with  gentleness. 

"  Margaret,  you  still  doubt  me,"  he  exclaimed  reproach 
fully. 

"  No,  Alfred,  I  doubt  you  not.  I  believe  you.  I  have 
only  been  too  ready  and  willing  to  believe  you.  Ah  !  have 
you  not  had  sufficient  proof  of  this  ?  Leave  me  the  con 
sciousness  of  virtue — the  feeling  of  strength  still  to  assert 
it,  now  that  my  eyes  are  open  to  my  previous  weakness." 

"  But  there  is  no  reason  to  be  so  cold.  Remember  you 
are  mine  by  every  tie  of  the  heart — another  day  will  make 
you  wholly  mine.  Surely,  there  is  no  need  for  this  frigid 
bearing.  No,  no!  you  doubt — you  do  not  believe  me, 
Margaret !" 

"  If  I  did  not  believe  you,  Alfred  Stevens,"  she  answered 
gravely,  "  my  prayer  would  be  for  death,  and  I  should  find 

15 


338  CHARLEMONT. 

it.  These  woods  which  have  witnessed  my  fault  should 
have  witnessed  my  expiation.  The  homes  which  have  known 
me  should  know  me  no  more." 

The  solemnity  of  her  manner  rather  impressed  him,  but 
having  no  real  regard  for  her,  he  was  unwilling  to  be  baf 
fled  in  his  true  desires. 

"  If  you  doubt  me  not — if  you  have  faith  in  me,  Marga 
ret,  why  this  solemnity,  this  reserve  ?  Prove  to  me,  by 
your  looks,  by  your  actions,  by  the  dear  glances,  the  sweet 
murmurs,  and  the  fond  embrace,  what  these  cold  assurances 
do  not  say." 

His  hand  rested  on  her  neck.  She  gently  raised  and 
removed  it. 

"  I  have  already  proved  to  you  my  weakness.  I  will  now 
prove  my  strength.  It  is  better  so,  Alfred.  If  I  have  won 
your  love,  let  me  now  command  your  esteem,  or  maintain 
what  is  left  me  of  my  own.  Do  not  be  angry  with  me  if  I 
insist  upon  it.  I  am  resolute  now  to  be  worthy  of  you  and 
of  myself." 

"  Ah !  you  call  this  love  ?"  said  he  bitterly.  "  If  you 
ever  loved,  indeed,  Margaret " 

"  If  I  ever  loved  —  and  have  1  given  you  no  proofs  ?" 
she  exclaimed  in  a  burst  of  passion  ;  "  all  the  proofs  that 
a  woman  can  give,  short  of  her  blood  ;  and  that,  Alfred 
Stevens — that  too,  I  was  prepared  to  give,  had  you  not 
promptly  assured  me  of  your  faith." 

She  drew  a  small  dagger  from  her  sleeve,  and  bared  it 
beneath  his  glance. 

"  Think  you  I  brought  this  without  an  object  ?  No  ! 
Alfred  Stevens — know  me  better  !  I  came  here  prepared 
to  die,  as  well  as  a  frail  and  erring  woman  could  be  pre 
pared.  You  disarmed  the  dagger.  You  subdued  the  de 
termination  when  you  bid  me  live  for  you.  In  your  faith, 
I  am  willing  to  live.  I  believe  you,  and  am  resolved  to 
make  myself  worthy  of  your  belief  also.  I  have  promised 
to  be  your  wife,  and  here  before  Heaven,  I  swear  to  be  your 


STRENGTH   AFTER   FALL.  339 

faithful  wife ;  but,  until  then,  you  shall  presume  in  no  re 
spect.  Your  lip  shall  not  touch  mine  ;  your  arms  shall  not 
embrace  me ;  you  shall  see,  dear  Alfred,  that,  with  my  eyes 
once  opened  fully  upon  my  own  weakness,  I  have  acquired 
the  most  certain  strength." 

"  Give  me  the  dagger,"  he  said. 

She  hesitated. 

"  You  doubt  me  still  ?" 

"  No,  no  !"  she  exclaimed,  handing  him  the  weapon — 
"no,  no!  I  do  not  doubt  you — I  dare  not.  Doubt  you, 
Alfred? — that  were  death,  even  without  the  dagger!" 


340  CHARLEMONT. 


CHAPTER   XXIX. 

BULL-PUPS  IN  TRAINING. 

ALFRED  STEVENS  was  sufficiently  familiar  with  the  sex  to 
perceive  that  Margaret  Cooper  was  resolved.  There  was 
that  in  her  look  and  manner  which  convinced  him  that  she 
was  not  now  to  be  overcome.  There  was  no  effort  or  con 
straint  in  either  her  looks  or  language.  The  composure  of 
assured  strength  was  there.  The  discovery  of  her  weak 
ness,  which  he  had  so  unexpectedly  made,  had  rendered 
her  vigilant.  Suspecting  herself — which  women  are  not 
apt  to  do  —  she  became  watchful,  not  only  of  the  approach 
of  her  lover,  but  of  every  emotion  of  her  own  soul ;  and  it 
was  with  a  degree  of  chagrin  which  he  could  scarcely  re 
frain  from  showing,  that  he  was  compelled  to  forego,  at  least 
for  the  present,  all  his  usual  arts  of  seduction. 

Yet  he  knew  not  how  to  refrain.  Never  had  Margaret 
Cooper  seemed  so  lovely  in  his  eyes,  so  commanding,  so 
eloquent  with  beauty,  as  now,  when  remorse  had  touched 
her  eyes  with  an  unwonted  shadow,  and  tears  and  night- 
watching  had  subdued  the  richer  bloom  upon  her  cheek. 
Proud  still,  but  pensive  in  her  pride,  she  walked  silently 
beside  him,  still  brooding  over  thoughts  which  she  would 
not  willingly  admit  were  doubts,  and  grasping  every  word 
of  assurance  that  fell  from  his  lips  as  if  it  had  been  some 
additional  security. 

These  assurances  he  still  suffered  to  escape  him,  with 
sufficient  frequency  and  solemnity,  to  confirm  that  feeling 


BULL-PUPS   IN  TRAINING.  841 

of  confidence  which  his  promise  of  marriage  had  inspired 
in  her  mind.  There  was  a  subdued  fondness  in  his  voice, 
and  an  empressement  in  his  manner,  which  was  not  all  prac 
tice.  The  character  which  Margaret  Cooper  had  displayed 
in  this  last  interview  —  her  equal  firmness  and  fear — the 
noble  elevation  of  soul  which,  admitting  her  own  errors, 
disdained  to  remind  him  of  his — a  course  which  would 
have  been  the  most  ready  of  adoption  among  the  weaker 
and  less  generous  of  the  sex — had  touched  him  with  a  de 
gree  of  respect  akin  to.  admiration  ;  and  so  strong  was  the 
impression  made  upon  him  of  her  great  natural  superiority 
of  mind  to  almost  all  the  women  he  had  ever  met,  that,  but 
for  her  one  unhappy  lapse,  he  had  sought  no  other  wife. 
Had  she  been  strong  at  first  as  she  proved  herself  at  last, 
this  had  been  inevitable. 

When  in  his  own  chamber  that  night,  he  could  not  help 
recalling  to  his  memory  the  proud  elevation  of  her  charac 
ter  as  it  had  appeared  in  that  interview.  The  recollection 
really  gave  him  pain,  since  along  with  it  arose  the  memory 
also  of  that  unfortunate  frailty,  which  became  more  promi 
nent  as  a  crime  in  connection  with  that  intellectual  merit 
which,  it  is  erroneously  assumed,  should  have  made  it  sure. 

"  But  for  that,  Margaret  Cooper,  and  this  marriage  were 
no  vain  promise.  But  that  forbids.  No,  no — no  spousals 
for  me :  let  John  Cross  and  the  bride  be  ready  or  not,  there 
shall  be  a  party  wanting  to  that  contract !  And  yet,  what 
a  woman  to  lose !  what  a  woman  to  win !  No  tragedy- 
queen  ever  bore  herself  like  that.  Talk  of  Siddons,  indeed ! 
She  would  have  brought  down  the  house  in  that  sudden 
prostration — that  passionate  appeal.  She  made  even  me 
tremble.  I  could  have  loved  her  for  that,  if  for  that  only. 
To  make  me  tremble !  and  with  such  a  look,  such  an  eye, 
such  a  stern,  sweet,  fierce  beauty  !  By  Heavens  !  I  know 
not  how  to  give  her  up.  What  a  sensation  she  would 
make  in  Frankfort !  Were  she  my  wife — but  no,  no  !  bait 
for  gudgeons !  I  am  not  so  great  a  fool  as  that.  She  who 


842  CHARLEMONT. 

is  mine  on  my  terms,  is  yours,  sir,  or  yours — is  anybody's, 
when  the  humor  suits  and  the  opportunity.  I  can  not  think 
of  that.  Yet,  to  lose  her  is  as  little  to  be  thought  of.  I 
must  manage  it.  I  must  get  her  off  from  this  place.  It 
need  not  be  to  Frankfort!  Let  me  see — there  is — hum! 
— hum  ! — yes,  a  ride  of  a  few  miles — an  afternoon  excur 
sion —  quite  convenient,  yet  not  too  near.  It  must  be  man 
aged  ;  but,  at  all  events,  I  must  evade  this  marriage — put 
it  off  for  the  present — get  some  decent  excuse.  That's 
easy  enough,  and  for  the  rest,  why,  time  that  softens  all 
things,  except  man  and  woman,  time  will  make  that  easy 
too.  To-morrow  for  Ellisland,  and  the  rest  after." 

Thus,  resolving  not  to  keep  his  vows  to  his  unhappy  vic 
tim,  the  criminal  was  yet  devising  plans  by  which  to  con 
tinue  his  power  over  her.  These  plans,  yet  immature  in 
his  own  mind,  at  least  unexpressed,  need  not  be  analyzed 
here,  and  may  be  conjectured  by  the  reader. 

That  night,  Stevens  busied  himself  in  preparing  letters. 
Of  these  he  wrote  several.  It  will  not  further  our  progress 
to  look  over  him  as  he  writes ;  and  we  prefer  rather,  in 
this  place,  to  hurry  on  events  which,  it  may  be  the  com 
plaint  of  all  parties,  reader  not  omitted,  have  been  too  long 
suffered  to  stagnate.  But  we  trust  not.  Let  us  hurry 
Stevens  through  Friday  night — the  night  of  that  last  in 
terview. 

Saturday  morning,  we  observe  that  his  appetite  is  unim 
paired.  He  discusses  the  breakfast  at  Hinkley's  as  if  he 
had  never  heard  of  suffering.  He  has  said  an  unctuous 
grace.  Biscuits  hot,  of  best  Ohio  flour,  are  smoking  on 
his  plate.  A  golden-looking  mass  of  best  fresh  butter  is 
made  to  assimilate  its  luscious  qualities  with  those  of  the 
drier  and  hotter  substance.  A  copious  bowl  of  milk,  new 
from  the  dugs  of  old  Brindle,  stands  beside  him,  patiently 
waiting  to  be  honored  by  his  unscrupulous  but  not  unfas-. 
tidious  taste.  The  grace  is  said,  and  the  gravy  follows. 
He  has  a  religious  regard  for  the  goods  and  gifts  of  this 


BULL-PUPS   IN   TRAINING.  343 

life.  He  eats  heartily,  and  the  thanks  which  follow,  if  not 
from  the  bottom  of  the  soul,  were  sufficiently  earnest  to 
have  emanated  from  the  bottom  of  his  stomach. 

This  over,  he  has  a  chat  with  his  hosts.  He  discusses 
with  old  Hinkley  the  merits  of  the  new  lights.  What  these 
new  lights  were,  at  that  period,  we  do  not  pretend  to 
remember.  Among  sectarians,  there  are  periodical  new 
lights  which  singularly  tend  to  increase  the  moral  darkness. 
From  these,  after  a  while,  they  passed  to  the  love  festivals 
or  feasts — a  pleasant  practice  of  the  methodist  church, 
which  is  supposed  to  be  very  promotive  of  many  other  good 
things  besides  love ;  though  we  are  constrained  to  say  that 
Brother  Stevens  and  Brother  Hinkley — who,  it  may  be  re 
marked,  had  very  long  and  stubborn  arguments,  frequently 
without  discovering,  till  they  reached  the  close,  that  they 
were  thoroughly  agreed  in  every  respect  except  in  words 
—  concurred  in  the  opinion  that  there  was  no  portion  of  the 
church  practice  so  highly  conducive  to  the  amalgamation 
of  soul  with  soul,  and  all  souls  with  God,  as  this  very  prac 
tice  of  love-feasts ! 

Being  agreed  on  this  and  other  subjects,  Mr.  Hinkley 
invited  Brother  Stevens  out  to  look  at  his  turnips  and  po 
tatoes  ;  and  when  this  delicate  inquiry  was  over,  toward 
ten  o'clock  in  the  day,  Brother  Stevens  concluded  that  he 
must  take  a  gallop ;  he  was  dyspeptic,  felt  queerish,  his 
studies  were  too  close,  his  mind  too  busy  with  the  great 
concerns  of  salvation.  These  are  enough  to  give  one  dys 
pepsia.  Of  course,  the  hot  rolls  and  mountains  of  volcanic 
butter — steam-ejecting — could  have  produced  no  such  evil 
effects  upon  a  laborer  in  the  vineyard.  At  all  events,  a 
gallop  was  necessary,  and  the  horse  was  brought.  Brother 
Hinkley  and  our  matronly  sister  of  the  same  name  watched 
the  progress  of  the  pious  youth,  as,  spurring  up  the  hills, 
he  pursued  the  usual  route,  taking  at  first  the  broad  high 
way  leading  to  the  eastern  country. 

There  were  other  eyes  that  watched  the  departure  of 


344  CHARLEMONT. 

Brother  Stevens  with  no  less  interest,  but  of  another  kind, 
than  those  of  the  venerable  couple.  Our  excellent  friend 
Calvert  started  up  on  hearing  the  tread  of  the  horse,  and, 
looking  out  from  his  porch,  ascertained  with  some  eager 
ness  of  glance  that  the  rider  was  Alfred  Stevens. 

Now,  why  was  the  interest  of  Calvert  so  much  greater  on 
this  than  on  any  other  previous  occasion  ?  We  will  tell 
you,  gentle  reader.  He  had  been  roused  at  an  early  hour 
that  morning  by  a  visit  from  Ned  Hinkley. 

"  Gran'pa,"  was  the  reverent  formula  of  our  fisherman 
at  beginning,  "  to-day's  the  day.  I'rn  pretty  certain  that 
Stevens  will  be  riding  out  to-day,  for  he  missed  the  last 
Saturday.  I'll  take  my  chance  for  it,  therefore,  and  brush 
out  ahead  of  him.  I  think  I've  got  it  pretty  straight  now, 
the  place  that  he  goes  to,  and  I'll  see  if  I  can't  get  there 
soon  enough  to  put  myself  in  a  comfortable  fix,  so  as  to  see 
what's  a-going  on  and  what  he  goes  after.  Now,  gran'pa, 
I'll  tell  you  what  I  want  from  you — them  pocket-pistols  of 
your'n.  Bill  Hinkley  carried  off  grandad's,  and  there's 
none  besides  that  I  can  lay  hold  on." 

"  But,  Ned,  I'm  afraid  to  lend  them  to  you." 

"What 'fraidof?" 

"  That  you'll  use  them." 

"  To  be  sure  I  will,  if  there's  any  need,  gran'pa.  What 
do  I  get  them  for?" 

"Ah,  yes  !  but  I  fear  you'll  find  a  necessity  where  there 
is  none.  You'll  be  thrusting  your  head  into  some  fray  in 
which  you  may  lose  your  ears." 

"  By  Jupiter,  no  !  No,  gran'pa,  I'll  wait  for  the  neces 
sity.  I  won't  look  for  it.  I'm  going  straight  ahead  this 
time,  and  to  one  object  only.  I  think  Stevens  is  a  rascal, 
and  I'm  bent  to  find  him  out.  I've  had  no  disposition  to 
lick  anybody  but  him,  ever  since  he  drove  Bill  Hinkley  off 
— you  and  him  together." 

"  You'll  promise  me,  Ned  ?" 

"  Sure  as  a  snag  in  the  forehead  of  a  Mississippi  steamer. 
Depend  upon  me." 


BULL-PUPS   IN   TRAINING.  345 

"  But  there  must  be  no  quarrelling  with  Stevens  either, 
Ned." 

"  Look  you,  gran'pa,  if  I'm  to  quarrel  with  Stevens  or 
anybody  else,  'twouldn't  be  your  pistols  in  my  pocket  that 
would  make  me  set  on,  and  'twouldn't  be  the  want  of  'ein 
that  would  make  me  stop.  When  it's  my  cue  to  fight,  look 
yon,  I  won't  need  any  prompter,  in  the  shape  of  friend  or 
pistol.  Now  that  speech  is  from  one  of  your  poets,  pretty 
near,  and  ought  to  convince  you  that  you  may  as  well  lend 
the  puppies  and  say  no  more  about  it.  If  you  don't  you'll 
only  compel  me  to  carry  my  rifle,  and  that'll  be  something 
worse  to  an  enemy,  and  something  heavier  for  me.  Come, 
come,  gran'pa,  don't  be  too  scrupulous  in  your  old  age. 
Your  having  them  is  a  sufficient  excuse  for  my  having"  them 
too.  It  shows  that  they  ought  to  be  had." 

"You're  logic-chopping  this  morning,  Ned — see  that 
you  don't  get  to  man-chopping  in  the  afternoon.  You  shall 
have  the  pistols,  but  do  not  use  them  rashly.  I  have  kept 
them  simply  for  defence  against  invasion  ;  not  for  the  pur 
pose  of  quarrel,  or  revenge." 

u  And  you've  kept  them  mighty  well,  gran'pa,"  replied 
the  young  man,  as  he  contemplated  with  an  eye  of  anxious 
admiration,  the  polish  of  the  steel  barrels,  the  nice  carving 
of  the  handles,  and  the  fantastic  but  graceful  inlay  of  the 
silver-mounting  and  setting.  The  old  man  regarded  him 
with  a  smile. 

"  Yes,  Ned,  I've  kept  them  well.  They  have  never  taken 
life,  though  they  have  been  repeatedly  tried  upon  bull's  eye 
and  tree-bark.  If  you  will  promise  me  not  to  use  them 
to-day,  Ned,  you  shall  have  them." 

"  Take  'em  back,  gran'pa." 

"Why?" 

"  Why,  I'd  feel  the  meanest  in  the  world  to  have  a 

we'pon,  and  not  use  it  when  there's  a  need  to  do  so ;  and 

I'm  half  afraid  that  the  temptation  of  having  such  beautiful 

puppies  for  myself— twin-puppies,  I  may  say — having  just 

15* 


346  CHARLEMONT. 

the  same  look  out  of  the  eyes,  and  just  the  same  spots  and 
marks,  and,  I  reckon,  just  the  same  way  of  giving  tongue 
— I'm  half  afraid,  I  say,  that  to  get  to  be  the  owner  of 
them,  might  tempt  me  to  stand  quiet  and  let  a  chap  wink 
at  me  —  maybe  laugh  outright — may  be  suck  in  his  breath, 
and  give  a  phew-phew-whistle  just  while  I'm  passing !  No  ! 
no !  gran'pa,  take  back  your  words,  or  take  back  your 
puppies.  Won't  risk  to  carry  both.  I'd  sooner  take  Patsy 
Rifle,  with  all  her  weight,  and  no  terms  at  all." 

"  Pshaw,  Ned,  you're  a  fool." 

"  That's  no  news,  gran'pa,  to  you  or  me.  But  it  don't 
alter  the  case.  Put  up  your  puppies." 

"No,  Ned;  you  shall  have  them  on  your  own  terms. 
Take  'em  as  they  are.  I  give  them  to  you." 

"And  I  may  shoot  anybody  I  please  this  afternoon, 
gran'pa  ?" 

"Ay,  ay,  Ned — anybody — " 

Thus  far  the  old  man,  when  he  stopped  himself,  changed 
his  manner,  which  was  that  of  playful  good-humor,  to  that 
of  gravity,  while  his  tones  underwent  a  corresponding 
change  — 

"  But,  Ned,  my  son,  while  I  leave  it  to  your  discretion, 
I  yet  beg  you  to  proceed  cautiously — seek  no  strife,  avoid 
it — go  not  into  the  crowd — keep  from  them  where  you  see 
them  drinking,  and  do  not  use  these  or  any  weapons  for 
any  trifling  provocation.  Nothing  but  the  last  necessity 
of  self-preservation  justifies  the  taking  of  life." 

"  Gran'pa — thank  you — you've  touched  me  in  the  very 
midst  of  my  tender-place,  by  this  handsome  present.  One 
of  these  puppies  I'll  name  after  you,  and  I'll  notch  it  on 
the  butt.  The  other  I'll  call  Bill  Hinkley,  and  I  won't 
notch  that.  Yours,  I'll  call  my  pacific  puppy,  and  I'll  use 
it  only  for  peace-making  purposes.  The  other  I'll  call  my 
bull-pup,  and  him  I'll  use  for  baiting  and  butting,  and 
goring.  But,  as  you  beg,  I  promise  you  I'll  keep  'em 
both  out  of  mischief  as  long  as  I  can.  Be  certain  sure 


BULL-PUPS   IN   TRAINING.  347 

that  it  won't  be  my  having  the  pups  that'll  make  me  get 
into  a  skrimmage  a  bit  the  sooner;  for  I  never  was  the 
man  to  ask  whether  my  dogs  were  at  hand  before  I  could 
say  the  word,  '  set-on  !'  It's  a  sort  of  nature  in  a  man  that 
don't  stop  to  look  after  his  weapons,  but  naturally  expects 
to  find  'em  any  how,  when  his  blood's  up,  and  there's  a 
necessity  to  do." 

This  long  speech  and  strong  assurance  of  his  pacific  na 
ture  and  purposes,  did  not  prevent  the  speaker  from  making, 
while  he  spoke,  certain  dextrous  uses  of  the  instruments 
which  were  given  into  his  hands.  Right  and  left  were 
equally  busy ;  one  muzzle  was  addressed  to  the  candle 
upon  the  mantelpiece,  the  other  pursued  the  ambulatory 
movements  of  a  great  black  spider  upon  the  wall.  The 
old  man  surveyed  him  with  an  irrepressible  smile.  Sud 
denly  interrupting  himself  the  youth  exclaimed  : — 

"  Are  they  loaded,  gran'pa  ?" 

He  was  answered  in  the  negative. 

"  Because,  if  they  were,"  said  he,  "and  that  great  black 
spider  was  Brother  Stevens,  I'd  show  you  in  the  twinkle  of 
a  musquito,  how  I'd  put  a  finish  to  his  morning's  work. 
But  I'd  use  the  bull-pup,  gran'pa — see,  this  one  —  the 
pacific  one  I'd  empty  upon  him  with  powder  only,  as  a  sort 
of  feu  de  joie  —  and  then  I'd  set  up  the  song — what's  it? 
ah !  Te  Deum.  A  black  spider  always  puts  me  in  mind 
of  a  rascal." 


348  CHARLEMONT. 


CHAPTER   XXX. 

THE   FOX   IN   THE   TRAP. 

THE  youth  barely  stopped  to  swallow  his  breakfast,  when 
he  set  off  from  the  village.  He  managed  his  movements 
with  considerable  caution  ;  and,  fetching  a  circuit  from  an  op 
posite  quarter,  after  having  ridden  some  five  miles  out  of  his 
way,  passed  into  the  road  whicli  he  suspected  that  Stevens 
would  pursue.  We  do  not  care  to  show  the  detailed  pro 
cesses  by  which  he  arrived  at  this  conclusion.  The  reader 
may  take  for  granted  that  he  had  heard  from  some  way-side 
farmer,  that  a  stranger  rode  by  his  cottage  once  a  week, 
wearing  such  and  such  breeches,  and  mounted  upon  a  nag 
of  a  certain  color  and  with  certain  qualities.  Enough  to 
say,  that  Ned  Hinkley  was  tolerably  certain  of  his  route 
and  man. 

He  sped  on  accordingly — did  not  once  hesitate  at  turns, 
right  or  left,  forks  and  cross-roads,  but  keeping  an  inflexi 
ble  course,  he  placed  himself  at  such  a  point  on  the  road 
as  to  leave  it  no  longer  doubtful,  should  Stevens  pass,  of 
the  place  whicli  usually  brought  him  up.  Here  he  dis 
mounted,  hurried  his  horse,  out  of  sight  and  hearing,  into 
the  woods,  and  choosing  a  position  for  himself,  with  some 
nicety,  along  the  road-side,  put  himself  in  close  cover, 
where,  stretching  his  frame  at  length,  he  commenced  the 
difficult  labor  of  cooling  his  impatience  with  his  cogitations. 

But  cogitating,  with  a  fellow  of  his  blood,  rather  whets 
impatience.  He  was  monstrous  restiff.  At  his  fishing- 


THE   FOX   IN   THE   TRAP.  349 

pond,  with  a  trout  to  hook,  he  would  have  lain  for  hours, 
as  patient  as  philosophy  itself,  and  as  inflexible  as  the  solid 
rock  over  which  he  brooded.  But  without  an  angle  at  his 
hand,  how  could  he  keep  quiet  ?  Not  by  thinking,  surely  ; 
and,  least  of  all,  by  thinking  about  that  person  for  whom 
his  hostility  was  so  active.  Thinking  of  Stevens,  by  a 
natural  association,  reminded  him  of  the  pistols  which 
Calvert  had  given  him.  Nothing  could  be  more  natural 
than  to  draw  them  from  his  bosom.  Again  and  again  he 
examined  them  in  fascinated  contemplation.  He  had  al 
ready  charged  them,  and  he  amused  himself  by  thinking 
of  the  mischief  he  could  do,  by  a  single  touch  upon  the 
trigger,  to  a  poor  little  wood-rat,  that  once  or  twice  ran 
along  a  decaying  log  some  five  steps  from  his  feet.  But 
his  object  being  secrecy,  the  rat  brushed  his  whiskers  in 
safety.  Still  he  amused  himself  by  aiming  at  this  and 
other  objects,  until  suddenly  reminded  of  the  very  import 
ant  difference  which  he  had  promised  Calvert  to  make 
between  the  pistols  in  his  future  use  of  them.  With  this 
recollection  he  drew  out  his  knife,  and  laid  the  weapons 
before  him. 

"  This,"  said  he,  after  a  careful  examination,  in  which 
he  fancied  he  discovered  some  slight  difference  between 
them  in  the  hang  of  the  trigger — "this  shall  be  my  bull- 
pup —  this  my  peace-maker!" 

The  latter  was  marked  accordingly  with  a  "  P,"  carved 
rudely  enough  by  one  whose  hand  was  much  more  prac 
tised  in  slitting  the  weasand  of  a  buck,  than  in  cutting  out, 
with  crayon,  or  Italian  crow-quill,  the  ungainly  forms  of  the 
Roman  alphabet.  Ned  Hinkley  shook  his  head  with  some 
misgiving  when  the  work  was  done ;  as  he  could  not  but 
see  that  he  had  somewhat  impaired  the  beauty  of  the  peace 
maker's  butt  by  the  hang-dog  looking  initial  which  he  had 
grafted  upon  it.  But  when  he  recollected  the  subordinate 
uses  to  which  this  "  puppy"  was  to  be  put,  and  considered 
how  unlikely,  in  his  case,  it  would  be  exposed  to  sight  in 


350  CHARLEMONT. 

comparison  with  its  more  masculine  brother,  he  grew  par 
tially  reconciled  to  an  evil  which  was  now,  indeed,  irre 
parable. 

It  does  not  require  that  we  should  bother  the  reader  with 
the  numberless  thoughts  and  fancies  which  bothered  our 
spy,  in  the  three  mortal  hours  in  which  he  kept  his  watch. 
Nothing  but  the  hope  that  he  should  ultimately  be  compen 
sated  to  the  utmost  by  a  full  discovery  of  all  that  he  sought 
to  know,  could  possibly  have  sustained  him  during  the  try 
ing  ordeal.  At  every  new  spasm  of  impatience  which  he 
felt,  he  drew  up  his  legs,  shifted  from  one  side  to  the  other, 
and  growled  out  some  small  thunder  in  the  shape  of  a  threat 
that  "  it  would  be  only  so  much  the  worse  for  him  when 
the  time  came!"  Him — -meaning  Stevens. 

At  last  Stevens  came.  He  watched  the  progress  of  his 
enemy  with  keen  eyes  :  and,  with  his  '6  bull-pup'7  in  his  hand, 
which  a  sort  of  instinct  made  him  keep  in  the  direction  of 
the  highway,  he  followed  his  form  upon  the  road.  When 
he  was  out  of  sight  and  hearing,  the  spy  jumped  to  his  feet. 
The  game,  he  felt,  was  secure  now — in  one  respect  at  least. 

"  He's  for  Ellisland.  That  was  no  bad  guess  then.  He 
might  have  been  for  Fergus,  or  Jonesboro',  or  Debarre,  but 
there's  no  turn  now  in  the  clear  track  to  Ellisland.  He's 
there  for  certain/' 

Ned  Hinkley  carefully  restored  his  pistols  to  his  bosom 
and  buttoned  up.  He  was  mounted  in  a  few  moments,  and 
pressing  slowly  forward  in  pursuit.  He  had  his  own  plans 
which  we  will  not  attempt  to  fathom  ;  but  we  fear  we  shall 
be  compelled  to  admit  that  he  was  not  sufficiently  a  gentle 
man  to  scruple  at  turning  scout  in  a  time  of  peace  (though, 
with  him,  by  the  way,  and  thus  he  justified,  he  is  in  pursuit 
of  an  enemy,  and  consequently  is  at  war),  and  dodging 
about,  under  cover,  spying  out  the  secrets  of  the  land,  and 
not  very  fastidious  in  listening  to  conversation  that  does 
not  exactly  concern  him.  We  fear  that  there  is  some  such 
flaw  in  the  character  of  Ned  Hinkley,  though,  otherwise,  a 


THE   FOX   IN   THE  TRAP.  351 

good,  hardy  fellow — with  a  rough  and  tumble  sort  of  good 
nature,  which,  having  bloodied  your  nose,  would  put  a 
knife-handle  down  your  back,  and  apply  a  handful  of  cob 
webs  to  the  nasal  extremity  in  order  to  arrest  the  haemor 
rhage.  We  are  sorry  that  there  is  such  a  defect  in  his 
character  ;  but  we  did  not  put  it  there.  We  should  prefer 
that  he  should  be  perfect — the  reader  will  believe  us  — 
but  there  are  grave  lamentations  enough  over  the  failures 
of  humanity  to  render  our  homilies  unnecessary.  Ned 
Hinkley  was  not  a  gentleman,  and  the  only  thing  to  be  said 
in  his  behalf,  is,  that  he  was  modest  enough  to  make  no 
pretensions  to  the  character.  As  he  once  said  in  a  row,  at 
the  company  muster :  — 

"  I'm  blackguard  enough,  on  this  occasion,  to  whip  e'er 
a  gentleman  among  you  !" 

Without  any  dream  of  such  a  spectre  at  his  heels  to  dis 
turb  his  imagination,  Alfred  Stevens  was  pursuing  his  way 
toward  Ellisland,  at  that  easy  travelling  gait,  which  is  the 
best  for  man  and  beast,  vulgarly  called  a  "  dog-trot."  Some 
very  fine  and  fanciful  people  insist  upon  calling  it  a  "jog 
trot."  We  beg  leave,  in  this  place,  to  set  them  right. 
Every  trot  is  a  jog,  and  so,  for  that  matter,  is  every  canter. 
A  dog-trot  takes  its  name  from  the  even  motion  of  the 
smaller  quadruped,  when  it  is  seized  with  no  particular 
mania,  and  is  yet  disposed  to  go  stubbornly  forward.  It 
is  in  more  classical  dialect,  the  festina  lente  motion.  It  is 
regularly  forward,  and  therefore  fast — it  never  puts  the 
animal  out  of  breath,  and  is  therefore  slow.  Nobody  ever 
saw  a  dog  practice  this  gait,  witli  a  tin  canister  at  his  tail, 
and  a  huddle  of  schoolboys  at  his  heels.  No!  it  is  the 
travelling  motion,  considering  equally  the  health  of  all  par 
ties,  and  the  necessity  of  getting  on. 

In  this  desire,  Ned  Hinkley  pressed  too  closely  on  the 
heels  of  Stevens.  He  once  nearly  overhauled  him ;  and 
falling  back,  he  subdued  his  speed,  to  what,  in  the  same 
semi-figurative  language,  he  styled  "  the  puppy-trot."  Ob- 


ot>^  CHARLEMONT. 

serving  these  respective  gaits,  Brother  Stevens  rode  into 
Ellisland  at  a  moderately  late  dinner-hour,  and  the  pursuer 
followed  at  an  unspeakable,  but  not  great,  distance  behind 
him.  "We  will,  henceforward,  after  a  brief  glance  at  Ellis- 
land,  confine  ourselves  more  particularly  to  the  progress 
of  Brother  Stevens. 

Ellisland  was  one  of  those  little  villages  to  which  geog 
raphers  scarcely  accord  a  place  upon  the  maps.  It  is  not 
honored  with  a  dot  in  any  map  that  we  have  ever  seen  of 
Kentucky.  But,  for  all  this,  it  is  a  place  !  Some  day  the 
name  will  be  changed  into  Acarnania  or  Etolia,  Epirus  or 
Scandinavia,  and  then  be  sure  you  shall  hear  of  it.  Al 
ready,  the  village  lawyers  —  there  are  two  of  them — have 
been  discussing  the  propriety  of  a  change  to  something 
classical ;  and  we  do  not  doubt  that,  before  long,  their  stu 
pidity  will  become  infectious.  Under  these  circumstances 
Ellisland  will  catch  a  name  that  will  stick.  At  present 
you  would  probably  never  hear  of  the  place,  were  it  not 
necessary  to  our  purposes  and  those  of  Brother  Stevens. 

It  has  its  tavern  and  blacksmith  shop — its  church — the 
meanest  fabric  in  the  village — its  postoffice  and  public 
well  and  trough.  There  is  also  a  rack  pro  bono  publico, 
but  as  it  is  in  front  of  the  tavern,  the  owner  of  that  estab 
lishment  has  not  wholly  succeeded  in  convincing  the  people 
that  it  was  put  there  with  simple  reference  to  the  public 
convenience.  The  tavern-keeper  is,  politically,  a  quad 
rupled  personage.  He  combines  the  four  offices  of  post 
master,  justice  of  the  peace,  town  council,  and  publican ; 
and  is  considered  a  monstrous  small  person  with  all.  The 
truth  is,  reader — this  aside — he  has  been  democrat  and 
whig,  alternately,  every  second  year  of  his  political  life. 
His  present  politics,  being  loco-foco,  are  in  Ellisland  con 
sidered  contra  bonos  mores.  It  is  hoped  that  he  will  be 
dismissed  from  office,  and  a  memorial  to  that  effect  is  in 
preparation;  but  the  days  of  Harrison — "  and  Tyler  too'y 
• — have  not  yet  come  round,  and  Jerry  Sunderland,  who 


THE   FOX   IX   THE   TRAP.  353 

knows  what  his  enemies  are  driving  at,  whirls  his  coat- 
skirts,  and  snaps  his  fingers,  in  scorn  of  all  their  machina 
tions.  He  has  a  friend  at  Washington,  who  spoons  in  the 
back  parlor  of  the  white -house — in  other  words,  is  a  mem 
ber  of  the  kitchen-cabinet,  of  which,  be  it  said,  en  passant, 
there  never  was  a  president  of  the  United  States  yet  entirely 
without  one — and — there  never  will  be!  So  much  for 
politics  and  Ellisland. 

There  was  some  crowd  in  the  village  on  the  day  of 
Brother  Stevens's  arrival.  Saturday  is  a  well  known  day 
in  the  western  and  southern  country  for  making  a  village 
gathering ;  and  when  Brother  Stevens,  having  hitched  his 
horse  at  the  public  rack,  pushed  his  way  to  the  postoffice, 
he  had  no  small  crowd  to  set  aside.  He  had  just  deposited 
his  letters,  received  others  in  return,  answered  some  ten  or 
fifteen  questions  which  Jerry  Sunderland,  P.  M.,  Q.  U., 
N.  P.,  M.  C.,  publican  and  sinner — such  were1  all  deser 
vedly  his  titles — had  thought  it  necessary  to  address  to 
him,  when  he  was  suddenly  startled  by  a  familiar  tap  upon 
the  shoulder ;  such  a  tap  as  leads  the  recipient  to  imagine 
that  he  is  about  to  be  honored  with  the  affectionate  saluta 
tion  of  some  John  Doe  or  Richard  Roe  of  the  law.  Ste 
vens  turned  with  some  feeling  of  annoyance,  if  not  misgiv 
ing,  and  met  the  arch,  smiling,  and  very  complacent  visage 
of  a  tall,  slender  young  gentleman  in  black  bushy  whiskers 
and  a  green  coat,  who  seized  him  by  the  hand  and  shook 
it  heartily,  while  a  chuckling  half-suppressed  laughter  gur 
gling  in  his  throat,  for  a  moment,  forbade  the  attempt  to 
speak.  Stevens  seemed  disquieted  and  looked  around  him 
suspiciously. 

"  What !  you  here,  Ben  ?" 

"  Ay,  you  see  me !  You  didn't  expect  to  see  me,  War- 
ham— 

"  Hush !"  was  the  whispered  word  of  Stevens,  again  look 
ing  round  him  in  trepidation. 

"  Oh !  ay !"  said  the  other  with  a  sly  chuckle,  and  also 


354  CHARLEMONT. 

in  a  whisper,  "  Mr.  Stevens  —  Brother  Stevens  —  hem!  I 
did  not  think.  How  is  your  holiness  to-day  ?" 

"  Come  aside,"  muttered  Stevens ;  and,  taking  the  arm 
of  the  incautious  speaker,  he  led  him  away  from  the  crowd, 
and  took  the  way  out  of  the  village.  Their  meeting  and 
departure  did  not  occasion  much,  if  any,  sensation.  The 
visitors  in  the  village  were  all  too  busy  in  discussing  the 
drink  and  doctrines,  pretty  equally  distributed,  of  Jerry 
the  publican.  But  there  was  one  eye  that  noted  the  meet 
ing  of  the  friends ;  that  beheld  the  concern  and  confusion 
of  Stevens :  that  saw  their  movements,  and  followed  their 
departing  steps. 

"Take  your  horse  —  where  is  he  ?"  demanded  Stevens. 

"  Here,  at  hand  ;  but  what  do  you  mean  to  do  ?" 

"  Nothing,  but  get  out  of  hearing  and  sight ;  for  your 
long  tongue,  Ben,  and  significant  face,  would  blab  any  se 
cret,  however  deep." 

"  Ah !  did  I  not  say  that  I  would  find  you  out  ?  Did  you 
get  my  last  letter  ?" 

"Ay,  I  did:  but  I'm  devilish  sorry,  Ben,  that  youVe 
come.  You'll  do  mischief.  You  have  always  been  a  mar 
plot." 

"  Never,  never !     You  don't  know  me." 

"Don't  I? — but  get  your  horse,  and  let's  go  into  the 
woods,  while  we  talk  over  matters." 

"  Why  not  leave  the  nags  here  ?" 

"  For  a  very  good  reason.  My  course  lies  in  that  direc 
tion,  so  that  I  am  in  my  way ;  while  yours,  if  your  purpose 
be  to  go  back  to  Frankfort,  will  lie  on  the  upper  side.  Nei 
ther  of  us  need  come  back  to  the  village." 

"  And  you  think  to  shuffle  me  off  so  soon,  do  you  ?" 

"  What  would  you  have  me  do?" 

"  Why,  give  us  a  peep  at  this  beauty — this  Altamira  of 
yours — at  least." 

"  Impossible  !  Do  not  think  of  it,  Ben  ;  you'd  spoil  all. 
But,  get  the  horse.  These  billet-heads  will  suspect  mis- 


THE   FOX  IN   THE  TRAP.  355 

chief  if  they  see  us  talking  together,  particularly  when  they 
behold  your  conceited  action.  This  political  landlord  will 
surmise  that  you  are  a  second  Aaron  Burr,  about  to  beat 
up  recruits  to  conquer  California.  Your  big  whiskers — - 
what  an  atrocious  pair! — with  your  standing  collar,  will 
confirm  the  impression." 

The  two  were  soon  mounted,  and  rode  into  the  adjoining 
woods.  They  were  only  a  stone's-throw  from  the  village, 
when  Stevens  alighted,  followed  by  his  companion.  They 
hitched  their  horses  to  some  swinging  branches  of  a  shel 
tering  tree,  and,  going  aside  a  few  paces  beyond,  seated 
themselves  upon  the  grass,  as  they  fancied,  in  a  place  of 
perfect  security. 

"  And  now,  Ben,  what  in  truth  brings  you  here  ?"  de 
manded  Stevens,  in  tones  of  voice  and  with  a  look  which 
betrayed  anything  but  satisfaction  with  the  visit. 

"  Curiosity,  I  tell  you,  and  the  legs  of  my  horse." 

"  Pshaw  !  you  have  some  other  motive." 

"No,  'pon  honor.  I  resolved  to  find  you  out — to  see 
what  you  were  driving  at,  and  where.  I  could  only  guess 
a  part  from  your  letter  to  Barnabas,  and  that  costive  scrawl 
with  which  you  honored  me.  Perhaps,  too  —  and  give  my 
friendship  credit  for  the  attempt — I  came  with  some  hope 
to  save  you." 

"  Save  me — from  what?" 

"Why,  wedlock — the  accursed  thing!  The  club  is  in 
terror  lest  you  should  forget  your  vows. '  So  glowing  were 
your  descriptions  of  your  Cleopatra,  that  we  knew  not  what 
to  make.  We  feared  everything." 

"  Why,  Barnabas  might  have  opened  your  eyes :  he  knew 
better." 

"  You're  not  married,  then  ?" 

"Pshaw!  no." 

"  Nor  engaged  ?" 

The  other  laughed  as  he  replied : — 

"  Why,  on  that  head,  the  least  said  the  better.     The  ro- 


356  CHARLEMONT. 

ving  commission  permits  you  to  run  up  any  flag  that  the 
occasion  requires." 

"  Ah,  you  sly  dog ! — and  what  success  ?" 

"  Come,  come,  Ben,  you  must  not  be  so  inquisitive.  The 
game's  my  own,  you  know ;  and  the  rules  of  the  club  give 
me  immunity  from  a  fellow-member." 

"  By  Gad,  I'll  resign  !  I  must  see  this  forest  beauty." 

"  Impossible !" 

"  Where's  she  ?     How  will  you  prevent  ?" 

"  By  a  very  easy  process.  Do  you  know  the  bird  that 
shrieks  farthest  from  her  young  ones  when  the  fowler  is  at 
hand  ?  I'll  follow  her  example." 

"  I'll  follow  you  to  the  uttermost  ends  of  the  earth,  War- 
ham!" 

"  Hush !  you  forget !  Am  I  not  Brother  Stevens  ?  Ha ! 
ha !  ha !  You  are  not  sufficiently  reverent,  brother.  See 
you  no  divinity  in  my  look  and  bearing  ?  Hark  you,  Ben, 
I've  been  a  sort  of  small  divinity  in  the  eyes  of  a  whole 
flock  for  a  month  past !" 

"  You  pray  ?" 

"  And  preach !" 

"Ha!  ha!  ha! — devilish  good;  but  I  must  see  you  in 
order  to  believe.  I  must,  indeed,  Brother  Stevens.  Why, 
man,  think  of  it — success  in  this  enterprise  will  make  you 
head  of  the  fraternity — you  will  be  declared  pope :  but  you 
must  have  witnesses !" 

"  So  I  think ;  and  hark  ye,  Ben" — laying  a  finger  on  the 
arm  of  the  other  — "  I  am  successful !" 

"  What !  you  don't  say  so  !  This  queen,  this  princess  of 
Egypt,  Cleopatra,  Altamira — eh?" 

"  Is  mine  —  soul  and  body — she  is  mine  !" 

"  And  is  what  you  say  ?  Come,  come,  you  don't  mean 
that  such  a  splendid  woman  as  you  describe — such  a  genius, 
poet,  painter,  musician — beauty  too  ! — you  don't  mean  to 
say  that—" 

"  I  do,  every  bit  of  it." 


THE   FOX   IN   THE   TRAP.  357 

"'Gad!  what  a  fellow! — what  a  lucky  dog!  But  you 
must  let  me  see  her,  Warham !" 

"  What !  to  spoil  all  —  to  blurt  out  the  truth  ? — for,  with 
every  disposition  to  fib,  you  lack  the  ability.  No,  no, 
Ben :  when  the  game's  up — when  I'm  tired  of  the  sport, 
and  feel  the  necessity  of  looking  out  fresh  viands — you 
shall  then  know  all ;  I'll  give  the  clue  into  your  own  hands, 
and  you  may  follow  it  to  your  heart's  content.  But  not 
now!" 

"  But  how  will  you  get  rid  of  me,  mon  ami,  if  my  curi 
osity  is  stubborn  ?" 

"Do  as  the  kill-deer  does — travel  from  the  nest — go 
home  with  you,  rather  than  you  should  succeed  in  your  im 
pertinence,  and  have  you  expelled  from  the  club  for  thrust 
ing  your  spoon  into  the  dish  of  a  brother-member." 

"  You're  a  Turk,  with  no  bowels  of  compassion.  But, 
at  all  events,  you  promise  me  the  dish  when  you're  done 
with  it  ?  you  give  me  the  preference  ?" 

"I  do!" 

"  Swear  by  Beelzebub  and  Mohammed  ;  by  Jupiter  Am- 
mon  and  Johannes  Secundus ;  by  the  ghost  of  Cardinal 
Benibo,  and  the  gridiron  of  the  fraternity !" 

"  Ay,  and  by  the  virginity  of  Queen  Elizabeth !" 

"  Simulacrum !  no  !  no  !  no  such  oath  for  me  !  That's 
swearing  by  the  thing  that  is  not,  was  not — could  not  be! 
You  shall  swear  by  the  oaths  of  the  club — you  must  be 
bound  on  the  gridiron  of  the  fraternity,  before  I  believe  you. 
Swear !" 

"  You  are  as  tenacious  as  the  ghost  of  buried  Denmark. 
But  you  shall  be  satisfied.  I  swear  by  the  mystic  grid 
iron  of  the  fraternity,  and  by  the  legs  thereof,  of  which  the 
images  are  Beelzebub,  Mohammed,  Johannes  Secundus, 
and  so  forth — nay,  by  that  memorable  volume,  so  revered 
in  the  eyes  of  the  clnb,  the  new  edition  of  '  The  Basiad,' 
of  which  who  among  us  has  been  the  true  exponent?  — 
that  profound  mystery  of  sweets,  fathomed  hourly,  yet 


358  CHARLEMONT. 

unfathomable  still — for  which  the  commentators,  already 
legions,  are  hourly  becoming  legions  more; — by  these, 
and  by  the  mysteries  of  the  mirror  that  reflects  not  our 
own,  but  the  image  we  desire; — by  these  things — by  all 
things  that  among  the  brotherhood  are  held  potent — I 
swear  to — " 

"  Give  me  the  preference  in  the  favor  of  this  princess  ; 
the  clue  to  find  her  when  you  have  left  her ;  and  the  assu 
rance  that  you  will  get  a  surfeit  as  soon  as  possible  :  swear !" 

"  Nay,  nay  !  I  swear  not  to  that  last !  I  shall  hold  on 
while  appetite  holds,  and  make  all  efforts  not  to  grow  dys 
peptic  in  a  hurry.  I'll  keep  rny  stomach  for  a  dainty,  be 
sure,  as  long  as  I  can.  I  were  no  brother,  worthy  of  our 
order,  if  I  did  not." 

"  Well,  well — to  the  rest !  Swear  to  the  rest,  and  I  am 
satisfied." 

"You  go  back,  then,  instanter?" 

"  What !  this  very  day  ?" 

"  This  hour !" 

"  The  d — 1 !  you  don't  mean  that,  Warham  ?"  returned 
the  other  in  some  consternation. 

"  Ay,  this  very  hour !  You  must  swear  to  that.  Your 
oath  must  precede  mine." 

"Ah!  man,  remember  I  only  got  here  last  night — long 
ride — hard-trotting  horse.  We  have  not  seen  each  other 
for  months.  I  have  a  cursed  sight  to  tell  you  about  the 
boys — girls  too — love,  law,  logic,  politics.  Do  you  know 
they  talk  of  running  you  for  the  house  ?" 

"  All  in  good  season,  Ben ;  not  now.  No,  no !  you  shall 
see  me  when  you  least  look  for  me,  and  there  will  be  time 
enough  for  all  these  matters  then.  They'll  keep.  For  the 
present,  let  me  say  to  you  that  we  must  part  now  within 
the  hour.  You  must  swear  not  to  dog  my  steps,  and  I  will 
swear  to  give  you  carte  blanche,  and  the  first  privileges  at 
my  princess,  when  I  leave  her.  This  is  my  bargain.  I 
make  no  other." 


THE    FOX   IN   THE   TRAP.  359 

"  I've  a  groat  mind  not  to  leave  you,"  said  the  other 
doggedly. 

"And  what  will  that  resolution  bring  you,  do  you  fancy  ? 
Do  you  suppose  I  am  to  be  tracked  in  such  a  manner  ?  No, 
Ben !  The  effect  will  be  to  make  me  set  off  for  the  east 
instantly,  whether  you  go  with  me  or  not ;  and  an  equally 
certain  effect  will  be  to  make  us  cut  loose  for  ever." 

"  You're  a  d d  hard  colt  to  manage,"  said  the  other 

moodily. 

"  I  sha'n't  let  myself  be  straddled  by  every  horse-boy,  I 
assure  you." 

"  Come,  come,  old  fellow,  that's  too  much  like  horse-play. 
Don't  be  angry  with  me.  I'll  accept  your  conditions." 

"  Very  good,"  said  Stevens ;  "  if  you  did  not,  Ben,  it 
would  be  no  better  for  you  ;  for,  otherwise,  you  should 
never  even  see  my  beauty  !" 

"  Is  she  so  very  beautiful,  old  boy  ?" 

"  A  queen,  I  tell  you  !  a  proud,  high-spirited,  wild  beauty 
of  the  mountains  —  a  thing  of  fire  and  majesty  —  a  glorious 
woman,  full  of  song  and  sentiment  and  ambition — a  genius, 
I  tell  you — who  can  improvise  like  Corinne,  and,  by  the 
way,  continually  reminds  one  of  that  glorious  creature.  In 
Italy,  she  would  have  been  greater  than  Corinne." 

"  And  you've  won  her  —  and  she  loves  you  ?" 

"  Ay — to  doting  !  I  found  her  a  sort  of  eagle — soaring, 
striving — always  with  an  eye  upon  the  hills,  and  fighting 
with  the  sunbeams.  I  have  subdued  her.  She  is  now  like 
a  timid  fawn  that  trembles  at  the  very  falling  of  a  leaf  in 
the  forests.  She  pants  with  hope  to  see  me,  and  pants  with 
tremulous  delight  when  I  come.  Still,  she  shows  every 
now  and  then,  a  glimmering  of  that  eagle  spirit  which  she 
had  at  first.  She  flashes  up  suddenly,  but  soon  sinks  again. 
Fancy  a  creature,  an  idolater  of  fame  before,  suddenly  made 
captive  by  love,  and  you  have  a  vain,  partial  image  of  my 
forest-princess." 


360  CHARLEMONT. 

"  What  a  lucky  dog  !  You'll  marry  her  yet,  old  boy,  in 
spite  of  all!" 

"  Pshaw !     You  are  green  to  talk  so." 

"  You'll  be  devilish  loath  to  give  her  up ;  I'm  afraid  I'll 
have  to  wait  a  cursed  long  time." 

"  No,  not  long !  Do  not  despair.  Easy  won,  easy 
valued." 

"  And  was  she  easily  won  ?" 

"  Yery  !  the  game  was  a  short  one.  She  is  a  mero 
country-girl,  you  know,  but  eighteen  or  thereabouts — sus 
pecting  nobody,  and  never  dreaming  that  she  had  a  heart 
or  passions  at  all.  She  thought  only  of  her  poetry  and  her 
books.  It  was  only  necessary  to  work  upon  heart  and  pas 
sions  while  talking  of  poetry  and  books,  aud  they  carried 
her  out  of  her  depth  before  she  could  recover.  She's  wiser 
now,  Ben,  I  can  assure  you,  and  will  require  more  dexterity 
to  keep  than  to  conquer." 

"And  she  has  no  brother  to  worry  a  body — no  d d 

ugly  Hobnail,  who  has  a  fancy  for  her,  and  may  make  a 
window  between  the  ribs  of  a  gallant,  such  as  nature  never 

intended,  with  the  ounce-bullet  of  some  d d  old-fashioned 

seven-foot  rifle — eh  ?" 

"  There  was  a  silly  chap,  one  Hinkley,  who  tried  it  on 
me — actually  challenged  me,  though  I  was  playing  parson, 
and  there  might  have  been  work  for  me  but  for  his  own 
bull-headed  father,  who  came  to  my  rescue,  beat  the  boy 
and  drove  him  from  the  place.  There  is  nobody  else  to 
give  me  any  annoyance,  unless  it  be  a  sort  of  half-witted 
chap,  a  cousin  of  the  former — a  sleepy  dog  that  is  never, 
I  believe,  entirely  awake  unless  when  he's  trout-fishing. 
He  has  squinted  a!  me,  as  if  fre  could  quarrel  if  he  dared, 
but  the  lad  is  dull — too  dull  to  be  very  troublesome.  You 
might  kiss  his  grandmother  under  his  nose,  and  he  would 
probably  regard  it  only  as  a  compliment  to  her  superior  vir 
tues,  and  would  thank  you  accordingly— 

A  voice  a  little  to  the  left  interrupted  the  speaker. 


THE   FOX   IN   THE   TRAP.  361 

"  So  he  does,  my  brave  parson,  for  his  grandmother's 
sake  and  his  own,"  were  the  words  of  the  speaker.  They 
turned  in  sudden  amaze  to  the  spot  whence  the  sounds 
issued.  The  bushes  opening  in  this  quarter,  presented  to 
the  astonished  eyes  of  Brother  Stevens,  the  perfect  image 
of  the  dull  lad  of  whom  he  had  been  speaking.  There  was 
Ned  Hinkley  in  proper  person  —  perfectly  awake,  yet  not 
trout-fishing !  A  sarcastic  grin  was  upon  his  visage,  and 
rolling  his  eyes  with  a  malicious  leer,  he  repeated  the  words 
which  had  first  interrupted  the  progress  of  the  dialogue 
between  the  friends. 

"  I  thank  you,  Brother  Stevens,  for  the  compliment  to 
my  grandmother's  virtues.  I  thank  you,  on  her  account 
as  well  as  my  own.  I'm  very  grateful,  I  assure  you,  very 
grateful,  very !" 

16 


362  CHARLEMONT. 


CHAPTER    XXXI. 

"  ABSQUATULATING." 

HAD  a  bolt  suddenly  flashed  and  thundered  at  the  feet  of 
the  two  friends,  falling  from  a  clear  sky  in  April,  they  could 
not  have  been  more  astounded.  They  started,  as  with  one 
impulse,  in  the  same  moment  to  their  feet. 

"  Keep  quiet,"  said  the  intruder ;  "  don't  let  me  interrupt 
you  in  so  pleasant  a  conversation.  I'd  like  to  hear  you  out. 
I'm  refreshed  by  it.  What  you  say  is  so  very  holy  and 
sermon-like,  that  I'm  like  a  new  man  when  I  hear  it.  Sit 
down,  Brother  Stevens,  and  begin  again  ;  sit  down,  Ben, 
my  good  fellow,  and  don't  look  so  scary !  You  look  as  if 
you  had  a  window  in  your  ribs  already !" 

The  intruder  had  not  moved,  though  he  had  startled  the 
conspirators.  He  did  not  seem  to  share  in  their  excitement. 
He  was  very  coolly  seated,  with  his  legs  deliberately 
crossed,  while  his  two  hands  parted  the  bushes  before  him 
in  order  to  display  his  visage — perhaps  with  the  modest 
design  of  showing  to  the  stranger  that  his  friend  had  griev 
ously  misrepresented  its  expression.  Certainly,  no  one 
could  say  that,  at  this  moment,  it  lacked  anything  of  spirit 
or  intelligence.  Never  were  eyes  more  keen  —  never  were 
lips  more  emphatically  made  to  denote  sarcasm  and  hos 
tility.  The  whole  face  was  alive  with  scorn,  and  hate,  and 
bitterness ;  and  there  was  defiance  enough  in  the  glance  to 
have  put  wings  to  fifty  bullets. 

His  coolness,  the  composure  which  his  position  and  words 


••  ABSQUATULATING."  363 

manifested,  awakened  the  anger  of  Brother  Stevens  as  soon 
as  the  first  feeling  of  surprise  had  passed  away.  He  felt, 
in  a  moment,  that  the  game  was  up  with  him — that  he 
could  no  longer  play  the  hypocrite  in  Charlemont.  He 
must  either  keep  his  pledges  to  Margaret  Cooper,  without 
delay  or  excuse,  or  he  must  abandon  all  other  designs 
which  his  profligate  heart  may  have  suggested  in  its  cruel 
purposes  against  her  peace. 

"Scoundrel!"  he  exclaimed;  "how  came  you  here? 
What  have  you  heard  ?" 

"  Good  words,  Brother  Stevens.  You  forget,  you  are  a 
parson." 

"  Brain  the  rascal !"  exclaimed  the  whiskered  stranger, 
looking  more  fierce  than  ever.  The  same  idea  seemed  to 
prompt  the  actions  of  Stevens.  Both  of  them,  at  the  same 
moment,  advanced  upon  the  intruder,  with  their  whips  up 
lifted  ;  but  still  Ned  Hinkley  did  not  rise.  With  his  legs 
still  crossed,  he  kept  his  position,  simply  lifting  from  the 
sward  beside  him,  where  they  had  been  placed  conveniently, 
his  two  "  puppies."  One  of  these  he  grasped  in  his  right 
hand  and  presented  as  his  enemies  approached. 

"  This,  gentlemen,"  said  he,  "  is  my  peace-maker.  It 
says,  '  Keep  your  distance.'  This  is  my  bull-pup,  or  peace- 
breaker  ;  it  says,  <  Come  on.'  Listen  to  which  you  please. 
It's  all  the  same  to  me.  Both  are  ready  to  answer  you,  and 
I  can  hardly  keep  'em  from  giving  tongue.  The  bull-pup 
longs  to  say  something  to  you,  Brother  Stevens — the  paci 
ficator  is  disposed  to  trim  your  whiskers,  Brother  Ben  ;  and 
I  say,  for  'em  both,  come  on,  you  black-hearted  rascals,  if 
you  want  to  know  whether  a  girl  of  Charlemont  can  find  a 
man  of  Charlemont  to  fight  her  battles.  I'm  man  enough, 
by  the  Eternal,  for  both  of  you!" 

The  efiect  of  Hinkley's  speech  was  equally  great  upon 
himself  and  the  enemy.  He  sprang  to  his  feet,  ere  the  last 
sentence  was  concluded,  and  they  recoiled  in  something  like 
indecent  haste.  The  language  of  determination  was  even 


364  CHARLEMONT. 

more  strongly  expressed  by  the  looks  of  the  rustic  than  by 
his  language  and  action.  They  backed  hurriedly  at  his  ap 
proach. 

"  What !  won't  you  stand  ?  —  won't  you  answer  to  your 
villanies  ? —  won't  you  fight?  Pull  out  your  barkers  and 
blaze  away,  you  small-souled  scamps ;  I  long  to  have  a 
crack  at  you — here  and  there — botli  at  a  time  !  Aint  you 
willing?  I'm  the  sleepy  trout-fisherman  !  Don't  you  know 
me  ?  You've  waked  me  up,  my  lads,  and  I  sha'n't  sleep 
again  in  a  hurry  !  As  for  you,  Alfred  Stevens — you  were 
ready  to  fight  Bill  Hinkley — here's  another  of  the  breed — • 
won't  you  fight  him  ?" 

"Yes — give  me  one  of  your  pistols,  if  you  dare,  and 
take  your  stand,"  said  Stevens  boldly. 

"You're  a  cunning  chap — give  you  one  of  my  puppies 
— a  stick  for  my  own  head — while  this  bush-whiskered 
chap  cudgels  me  over  from  behind.  No!  no!  none  of  that! 
Besides,  these  pistols  were  a  gift  from  a  good  man,  they 
sha'n't  be  disgraced  by  the  handling  of  a  bad  one.  Get 
your  own  weapons,  Brother  Stevens,  and  every  man  to  his 
tree." 

"  They  are  in  Charlemont !" 

"  Well !— you'll  meet  me  there  then  ?" 

"  Yes !"  was  the  somewhat  eager  answer  of  Stevens,  "  I 
will  meet  you  there  —  to-morrow  morning — " 

"  Sunday — no  !  no  !" 

"  Monday,  then  ;  this  evening,  if  we  get  home  in  season." 

"  It's  a  bargain  then,"  replied  Hinkley,  "  though  I  can 
hardly  keep  from  giving  you  the  teeth  of  the  bull !  As  for 
big-whiskered  Ben,  there,  I'd  like  to  let  him  taste  my  paci 
ficator.  I'd  just  like  to  brush  up  his  whiskers  with  gun 
powder — they  look  to  have  been  done  up  with  bear's  grease 
before,  and  have  a  mighty  fine  curl ;  but  if  I  wouldn't  friz 
zle  them  better  than  ever  a  speckled  hen  had  her  feathers 
frizzled,  then  I  don't  know  the  virtues  of  gun-powder.  On 
Monday  morning,  Brother  Stevens  !" 


"ABSQUATULATING."  865 

"  Ay,  ay  !  on  Monday  morning  !" 

Had  Ned  Hinkley  been  more  a  man  of  the  world — had 
he  not  been  a  simple  backwoodsman,  he  would  have  seen, 
in  the  eagerness  of  Stevens  to  make  this  arrangement, 
something,  which  would  have  rendered  him  suspicious  of 
his  truth.  The  instantaneous  thought  of  the  arch-hypocrite, 
convinced  him  that  he  could  never  return  to  Charlemont  if 
this  discovery  was  once  made  there.  His  first  impulse  was 
to  put  it  out  of  the  power  of  Ned  Hinkley  to  convey  the 
tidings.  We  do  not  say  that  he  would  have  deliberately 
murdered  him ;  but,  under  such  an  impulse  of  rage  and 
disappointment  as  governed  him  in  the  first  moments  of 
detection,  murder  has  been  often  done.  He  would  proba 
bly  have  beaten  him  into  incapacity  with  his  whip — which 
had  a  heavy  handle — had  not  the  rustic  been  sufficiently 
prepared.  The  pistols  of  Stevens  were  in  his  valise,  but 
he  had  no  purpose  of  fighting,  on  equal  terms,  with  a  man 
who  spoke  with  the  confidence  of  one  who  knew  how  to  use 
his  tools ;  and  when  the  simple  fellow,  assuming  that  he 
would  return  to  Charlemont  for  his  chattels,  offered  him 
the  meeting  there,  he  eagerly  caught  at  the  suggestion  as 
affording  himself  and  friend  the  means  of  final  escape. 

It  was  not  merely  the  pistols  of  Hinkley  of  which  he  had 
a  fear.  But  he  well  knew  how  extreme  would  be  the  dan 
ger,  should  the  rustic  gather  together  the  people  of  Ellis- 
land,  with  the  story  of  his  fraud,  and  the  cruel  consequences 
to  the  beauty  of  Charlemont,  by  which  the  deception  had 
been  followed.  But  the  simple  youth,  ignorant  of  the  lan 
guage  of  libertinism,  had  never  once  suspected  the  fatal 
lapse  from  virtue  of  which  Margaret  Cooper  had  been 
guilty.  He  was  too  unfamiliar  with  the  annals  and  prac 
tices  of  such  criminals,  to  gather  this  fact  from  the  equivo 
cal  words,  and  half-spoken  sentences,  and  sly  looks  of  the 
confederates.  Had  he  dreamed  this — had  it,  for  a  moment, 
entered  into  his  conjecturings — that  such  had  been  the 
case,  he  would  probably  have  shot  down  the  seducer  without 


866  CHARLEMONT. 

a  word  of  warning.  But  that  the  crime  was  other  than 
prospective,  he  had  not  the  smallest  fancy ;  and  this  may 
have  been  another  reason  why  he  took  the  chances  of  Ste- 
vens's  return  to  Charlemont,  and  let  him  off  at  the  moment. 

"  Even  should  he  not  return,"  such  may  have  been  his 
reflection — "  I  have  prevented  mischief  at  least.  He  will 
be  able  to  do  no  harm.  Margaret  Cooper  shall  be  warned 
of  her  escape,  and  become  humbler  at  least,  if  not  wiser, 
in  consequence.  At  all  events,  the  eyes  of  Uncle  Hinkley 
will  be  opened,  and  poor  Bill  be  restored  to  us  again !" 

"And  now  mount,  you  scamps,"  said  Hinkley,  pressing 
upon  the  two  with  presented  pistols.  "  I'm  eager  to  send 
big-whiskered  Ben  home  to  his  mother;  and  to  see  you, 
Brother  Stevens,  on  your  way  back  to  Charlemont.  I  can 
hardly  keep  hands  off  you  till  then ;  and  it's  only  to  do  so, 
that  I  hurry  you.  If  you  stay,  looking  black,  mouthing 
together,  I  can't  stand  it.  I  will  have  a  crack  at  you. 
My  peace-maker  longs  to  brush  up  them  whiskers.  My 
bull-pup  is  eager  to  take  you,  Brother  Stevens,  by  the  muz 
zle  !  Mount  you,  as  quick  as  you  can,  before  I  do  mis 
chief." 

Backing  toward  their  horses,  they  yielded  to  the  advan 
cing  muzzles,  which  the  instinct  of  fear  made  them  loath  to 
turn  their  backs  upon.  Never  were  two  hopeful  projectors 
so  suddenly  abased — so  completely  baffled.  Hinkley,  ad 
vancing  with  moderate  pace,  now  thrust  forward  one,  and 
now  the  other  pistol,  accompanying  the  action  with  a  spe 
cific  sentence  corresponding  to  each,  in  manner  and  form 
as  follows : — 

"  Back,  parson — back,  whiskers  !  Better  turn,  and  look 
out  for  the  roots,  as  you  go  forward.  There's  no  seeing  your 
way  along  the  road  by  looking  down  the  throats  of  my 
puppies.  If  you  want  to  be  sure  that  they'll  follow  till 
you're  mounted,  you  have  my  word  for  it.  No  mistake,  I 
tell  you.  They're  too  eager  on  scent,  to  lose  sight  of  you 
in  a  hurry,  and  they're  ready  to  give  tongue  at  a  moment's 


"  ABSQUATULATING."  367 

warning.  Take  care  not  to  stumble,  whiskers,  or  the  paci 
ficator  '11  be  into  your  brush." 

"  I'll  pay  you  for  this  !"  exclaimed  Stevens,  with  a  rage 
which  was  not  less  really  felt  than  judiciously  expressed. 
"Wait  till  we  meet!" 

"  Ay,  ay  !  I'll  wait ;  but  be  in  a  hurry.  Turn  now,  your 
nags  are  at  your  backs.  Turn  and  mount !" 

In  this  way  they  reached  the  tree  where  their  steeds 
were  fastened.  Thus,  with  the  muzzle  of  a  pistol  bearing 
close  upon  the  body  of  each — the  click  of  the  cock  they 
had  heard — the  finger  close  to  the  trigger  they  saw — they 
were  made  to  mount — in  momentary  apprehension  that 
the  backwoodsman,  whose  determined  character  was  suffi 
ciently  seen  in  his  face,  might  yet  change  his  resolve,  and 
with  wanton  hand,  riddle  their  bodies  with  his  bullets.  It 
was  only  when  they  were  mounted,  that  they  drew  a  breath 
of  partial  confidence. 

"  Now,"  said  Hinkley,  "  my  lads,  let  there  be  few  last 
words  between  you.  The  sooner  you're  off  the  better.  As 
for  you,  Alfred  Stevens,  the  sooner  you're  back  in  Charle- 
mont  the  more  daylight  we'll  have  to  go  upon.  I'll  be 
waiting  you,  I  reckon,  when  you  come." 

"  Ay,  and  you  may  wait,"  said  Stevens,  as  the  speaker 
turned  off  and  proceeded  to  the  spot  where  his  own  horse 
was  fastened. 

"  You  won't  return,  of  course  ?"  said  his  companion. 

"  No !  I  must  now  return  with  you,  thanks  to  your  in 
terference.  By  Heavens,  Ben,  I  knew,  at  your  coming, 
that  you  would  do  mischief ;  you  have  been  a  marplot  ever ; 
and  after  this,  I  am  half-resolved  to  forswear  your  society 
for  ever." 

"  Nay,  nay !  do  not  say  so,  Warham.  It  was  unfor 
tunate,  I  grant  you ;  but  how  the  devil  should  either  of  us 
guess  that  such  a  Turk  as  that  was  in  the  bush  ?" 

" Enough  for  the  present,"  said  the  other.     "It  is  not 


368  CHARLEMONT. 

now  whether  I  wish  to  ride  with  you  or  not.  There  is  no 
choice.  There  is  no  return  to  Charlemont." 

"  And  that's  the  name  of  the  place,  is  it  ?" 

"  Yes !  yes !  Much  good  may  the  knowledge  of  it  do 
you." 

"  How  fortunate  that  this  silly  fellow  concluded  to  lot 
you  off  on  such  a  promise.  What  an  ass  !" 

"  Yes  !  but  he  may  grow  wiser !  Put  spurs  to  your  jade, 
and  let  us  see  what  her  heels  are  good  for,  for  the  next 
three  hours.  I  do  not  yet  feel  secure.  The  simpleton 
may  grow  wiser  and  change  his  mind." 

"  He  can  scarcely  do  us  harm  now,  if  he  does." 

"Indeed  !"  said  Stevens — "you  know  nothing.  There's 
such  a  thing  as  hue  and  cry,  and  its  not  unfrequently  prac 
tised  in  these  regions,  when  the  sheriff  is  not  at  hand  and 
constables  are  scarce.  Every  man  is  then  a  sheriff." 

"  Well — but  there's  no  law-process  against  us  !" 

"  You  are  a  born  simpleton,  I  think,"  said  Stevens, 
with  little  scruple.  He  was  too  much  mortified  to  be  very 
heedful  of  the  feelings  of  his  companion.  "  There  needs 
no  law  in  such  a  case,  at  least  for  the  capture  of  a  sup 
posed  criminal ;  and,  for  that  matter,  they  do  not  find  it 
necessary  for  his  punishment  either.  Hark  ye,  Ben — 
there's  a  farmhouse  ?" 

"Yes,  I  see  it!" 

"  Don't  you  smell  tar  ? — They're  running  it  now  !" 

"  I  think  I  do  smell  something  like  it.     What  of  it  ?" 

"  Do  you  see  that  bed  hanging  from  yon  window  ?" 

"  Yes  !  of  course  I  see  it !" 

"It  is  a  feather-bed!" 

"Well— what  of  that?  Why  tell  me  this  stuff?  Of 
course  I  can  guess  as  well  as  you  that  it's  a  feather-bed, 
since  I  see  a  flock  of  geese  in  the  yard  with  their  necks  all 
bare." 

"  Hark  ye,  then !  There's  something  more  than  this, 
which  you  may  yet  see !  Touch  up  your  mare.  If  this 


"  ABSQUATULATING."  369 

fellow  brings  the  mob  at  Ellisland  upon  us,  that  tar  will  be 
run,  and  that  feather-bed  gutted,  for  our  benefit.  What 
they  took  from  the  geese  will  be  bestowed  on  us.  Do  you 
understand  me  ?  Did  you  ever  hear  of  a  man  whose  coat 
was  made  of  tar  and  feathers,  and  furnished  at  the  expense 
of  the  county  ?" 

"  Hush,  for  God's  sake,  Warham !  you  make  my  blood 
run  cold  with  your  hideous  notions !" 

"  That  fellow  offered  to  frizzle  your  whiskers.  These 
would  anoint  them  with  tar,  in  which  your  bear's  oil  would 
be  of  little  use." 

"  Ha !  don't  you  hear  a  noise  ?"  demanded  the  whiskered 
companion,  looking  behind  him. 

"  I  think  I  do,"  replied  the  other  musingly. 

"  A  great  noise  !"  continued  Don  Whiskerandos. 

"  Yes,  it  seems  to  me  that  it  is  a  great  noise." 

"  Like  people  shouting  ?" 

"  Somewhat — yes,  by  my  soul,  that  does  sound  some 
thing  like  a  shout !" 

"  And  there  !  Don't  stop  to  look  and  listen,  Warham," 
cried  his  companion  ;  "  it's  no  time  for  meditation.  They're 
coming!  hark! — "  and  with  a  single  glance  behind  him — • 
with  eyes  dilating  with  the  novel  apprehensions  of  receiv 
ing  a  garment,  unsolicited,  bestowed  by  the  bounty  of  the 
county — he  drove  his  spurs  into  the  flanks  of  his  mare,  and 
went  ahead  like  an  arrow.  Stevens  smiled  in  spite  of  his 
vexation. 

"  D — n  him !"  he  muttered  as  he  rode  forward,  "  it's  some 
satisfaction,  at  least,  to  scare  the  soul  out  of  him !" 
16* 


370  CHARLEMONT. 


CHAPTER   XXXII. 

THE   REVELATION. 

HAVING  seen  his  enemy  fairly  mounted,  and  under  way, 
as  lie  thought,  for  Charlemont,  Ned  Hinkley  returned  to 
Ellisland  for  his  own  horse.  Here  he  did  not  suffer  him 
self  to  linger,  though,  before  he  could  succeed  in  taking  his 
departure,  he  was  subjected  to  a  very  keen  and  searching 
examination  by  the  village  publican  and  politician.  Hav 
ing  undergone  this  scrutiny  with  tolerable  patience,  if  not 
to  the  entire  satisfaction  of  the  examiner,  he  set  forward  at 
a  free  canter,  determined  that  his  adversary  should  not  be 
compelled  to  wait. 

It  was  only  while  he  rode  that  he  began  to  fancy  the  pos 
sibility  of  the  other  having  taken  a  different  course ;  but 
as,  upon  reflection,  he  saw  no  other  plan  which  he  might 
have  adopted — for  lynching  for  suspected  offences  was  not 
yet  a  popular  practice  in  and  about  Charlemont — he  con 
tented  himself  with  the  reflection  that  he  had  done  all  that 
could  have  been  done  ;  and  if  Alfred  Stevens  failed  to  keep 
his  appointment,  he,  at  least,  was  one  of  the  losers.  He 
would  necessarily  lose  the  chance  of  revenging  an  indig 
nity,  not  to  speak  of  the  equally  serious  loss  of  that  enjoy 
ment  which  a  manly  fight  usually  gave  to  Ned  Hinkley 
himself,  and  which,  he  accordingly  assumed,  must  be  an 
equal  gratification  to  all  other  persons.  When  he  arrived 
at  Charlemont,  he  did  not  make  his  arrival  known,  but,  re* 
pairing  directly  to  the  lake  among  the  hills,  he  hitched  his 


THE   REVELATION.  871 

horse,  and  prepared,  with  what  patience  he  could  command, 
to  await  the  coming  of  the  enemy. 

The  reader  is  already  prepared  to  believe  that  the  wor 
thy  rustic  waited  in  vain.  It  was  only  with  the  coming  on 
of  night  that  he  began  to  consider  himself  outwitted.  He 
scratched  his  head  impatiently,  not  without  bringing  away 
some  shreds  of  the  hair,  jumped  on  his  horse,  and,  without 
making  many  allowances  for  the  rough  and  hilly  character 
of  the  road,  went  off  at  a  driving  pace  for  the  house  of  Uncle 
Hinkley.  Here  he  drew  up  only  to  ask  if  Brother  Stevens 
had  returned. 

"No!" 

"  Then,  dang  it !  he  never  will  return.  He's  a  skunk, 
uncle  —  as  great  a  skunk  as  ever  was  in  all  Kentucky!" 

"How!  what! — what  of  Brother  Stevens?"  demanded 
the  uncle,  seconded  by  John  Cross,  who  had  only  some  two 
hours  arrived  at  the  village,  and  now  appeared  at  the  door. 
But  Ned  Hinkley  was  already  off. 

"  He's  a  skunk ! — that's  all !'' 

His  last  words  threw  very  little  light  over  the  mystery, 
and  certainly  gave  very  little  satisfaction  to  his  hearers. 
The  absence  of  Alfred  Stevens,  at  a  time  when  John  Cross 
was  expected,  had  necessarily  occasioned  some  surprise  ; 
but,  of  course,  no  apprehensions  were  entertained  by  either 
the  worthy  parson  or  the  bigoted  host  that  he  could  be  de 
tained  by  any  cause  whatsoever  which  he  could  not  fully 
justify. 

The  next  course  of  Ned  Hinkley  was  for  the  cottage  of 
Mr.  Calvert.  To  the  old  man  he  gave  a  copious  detail  of 
all  his  discoveries — not  only  the  heads  of  what  he  heard 
from  the  conspirators  in  the  wood,  but  something  of  the 
terms  of  the  dialogue.  The  gravity  of  Calvert  increased 
as  the  other  proceeded.  He  saw  more  deeply  into  the  sig 
nification  of  certain  portions  of  this  dialogue  than  did  the 
narrator ;  and  when  the  latter,  after  having  expressed  his 
disappointment  at  the  non-appearance  of  Stevens  on  the 


372  CIIARLEMONT. 

field  of  combat,  at  least  congratulated  himself  at  having 
driven  him  fairly  from  the  ground,  the  other  shook  his  head 
mournfully. 

"  I  am  afraid  it's  too  late,  my  son." 

"  Too  late,  gran'pa !  How  ?  Is  it  ever  too  late  to  send 
such  a  rascal  a-packing  ?" 

"It  may  be  for  the  safety  of  some,  my  son." 

"  What !  Margaret  you  mean  ?  You  think  the  poor  fool 
of  a  girl's  too  far  gone  in  love  of  him,  do  you  ?" 

"  If  that  were  all,  Ned—" 

"  Why,  what  more,  eh  ?     You  don't  mean  ! — " 

The  apprehensions  of  the  simple,  unsuspecting  fellow,  for 
the  first  time  began  to  be  awakened  to  the  truth. 

"  I  am  afraid,  my  son,  that  this  wretch  has  been  in  Charle- 
morit  too  long.  From  certain  words  that  you  have  dropped, 
as  coming  from  Stevens,  in  speaking  to  his  comrade,  I  should 
regard  him  as  speaking  the  language  of  triumph  for  succes 
ses  already  gained." 

"  Oh,  hardly  !  I  didn't  think  so.  If  I  had  only  guessed 
that  he  meant  such  a  thing — though  I  can't  believe  it  — 
I'd  ha'  dropped  him  without  a  word.  I'd  have  given  him 
the  pacificator  as  well  as  the  peace-breaker.  Oh,  no !  I 
can't  think  it — I  can't — I  won't !  Margaret  Cooper  is  not 
a  girl  to  my  liking,  but,  Lord  help  us !  she's  too  beautiful 
and  too  smart  to  suffer  such  a  skunk,  in  so  short  a  time,  to 
get  the  whip-hand  of  her.  No,  gran'pa,  I  can't  and  won't 
believe  it!'' 

"  Yet,  Ned,  these  words  which  you  have  repeated  con 
vey  some  such  fear  to  my  mind.  It  may  be  that  the  villain 
was  only  boasting  to  his  companion.  There  are  scoundrels 
in  this  world  who  conceive  of  no  higher  subject  of  boast 
than  the  successful  deception  and  ruin  of  the  artless  and 
confiding.  I  sincerely  hope  that  this  may  be  the  case  now 
-that  it  was  the  mere  brag  of  a  profligate,  to  excite  the 
admiration  of  his  comrade.  But  when  you  speak  of  the 
beauty  and  the  smartness  of  this  poor  girl,  as  of  securities 


THE   REVELATION.  373 

for  virtue,  you  make  a  great  mistake.  Beauty  is  more  apt 
to  be  a  betrayer  than  a  protector ;  and  as  for  her  talent, 
that  is  seldom  a  protection  unless  it  be  associated  with  hu 
mility.  Hers  was  not.  She  was  most  ignorant  where  she 
was  most  assured.  She  knew  just  enough  to  congratulate 
herself  that  she  was  unlike  her  neighbors,  and  this  is  the 
very  temper  of  mind  which  is  likely  to  cast  down  its  pos 
sessor  in  shame.  I  trust  that  she  had  a  better  guardian 
angel  than  either  her  beauty  or  her  talents.  I  sincerely 
hope  that  she  is  safe.  At  all  events,  let  me  caution  you  not 
to  hint  the  possibility  of  its  being  otherwise.  We  will  take 
for  granted  that  Stevens  is  a  baffled  villain." 

"  I  only  wish  I  had  dropped  him  !" 

"  Better  as  it  is." 

"  What !  even  if  the  poor  girl  is — " 

"  Ay,  even  then  !" 

"  Why,  gran'pa,  can  it  be  possible  you  say  so  ?" 

u  Yes,  my  son  ;  I  say  so  here,  in  moments  of  comparative 
calmness,  and  in  the  absence  of  the  villain.  Perhaps,  were 
he  present,  I  should  say  otherwise." 

"  And  do  otherwise  !  You'd  shoot  him,  gran'pa,  as  soon 
as  I." 

"  Perhaps  !  I  think  it  likely.  But,  put  up  your  pistols, 
Ned.  You  have  nobody  now  to  shoot.  Put  them  up,  and 
let  us  walk  over  to  your  uncle's  at  once.  It  is  proper  that 
he  and  John  Cross  should  know  these  particulars." 

Ned  agreed  to  go,  but  not  to  put  up  his  pistols. 

"For,  you  see,  gran'pa,  this  rascal  may  return.  His 
friend  may  have  kept  him  in  long  talk.  We  may  meet  him 
coming  into  the  village." 

"  It  is  not  likely ;  but  come  along.  Give  me  that  staff, 
my  son,  and  your  arm  on  the  other  side.  I  feel  that  my 
eyes  are  no  longer  young." 

"  You  could  shoot  still,  gran'pa  ?" 

"  Not  well." 

"  What,  couldn't  you  hit  a  chap  like  Stevens  between 


374  CHARLEMONT. 

the  eyes  at  ten  paces  ?  I'm  sure  I  could  do  it,  blindfolded, 
by  a  sort  of  instinct." 

And  the  youth,  shutting  his  eyes,  as  if  to  try  the  experi 
ment,  drew  forth  one  of  his  pistols  from  his  bosom,  and 
began  to  direct  its  muzzle  around  the  room. 

"  There  was  a  black  spider  there,  gran'pa!  I'm  sure, 
taking  him  for  Stevens,  I  could  cut  his  web  for  him." 

"  You  have  cut  that  of  Stevens  himself,  and  his  comb 
too,  Ned." 

"  Yes,  yes — but  what  a  fool  I  was  not  to  make  it  his 
gills !" 

By  this  time  the  old  man  had  got  on  his  spencer,  and, 
with  staff  in  hand,  declared  himself  in  readiness.  Ned 
Hinkley  lowered  his  pistol  with  reluctance.  He  was  very 
anxious  to  try  the  weapon  and  his  own  aim,  on  somebody 
or  something.  That  black  spider  which  lived  so  securely 
in  the  domicil  of  Mr.  Calvert  would  have  stood  no  chance 
in  any  apartment  of  the  widow  Hinkley.  Even  the  "  pa 
cificator"  would  have  been  employed  for  its  extermination, 
if,  for  no  other  reason,  because  of  the  fancied  resemblance 
which  it  had  always  worn  to  Brother  Stevens — a  resem 
blance  which  occurred  to  him,  perhaps,  in  consequence  of 
the  supposed  similarity  between  the  arts  of  the  libertine 
and  those  for  the  entrapping  of  his  victims  which  distin 
guish  the  labors  of  the  spider. 

The  two  were  soon  arrived  at  old  Hinkley's,  and  the 
tale  of  Ned  was  told ;  but,  such  was  the  bigotry  of  the 
hearers,  without  securing  belief. 

"  So  blessed  a  young  man !"  said  the  old  lady. 

"  A  brand  from  the  burning !"  exclaimed  Brother  Cross. 

"  It's  all  an  invention  of  Satan  !"  cried  old  Hinkley,  "  to 
prevent  the  consummation  of  a  goodly  work." 

"  We  should  not  give  our  faith  too  readily  to  such  de 
vices  of  the  enemy,  Friend  Calvert,"  said  John  Cross,  pater 
nally. 

"  I  never  saw  anything  in  him  that  wasn't  perfectly  saint- 


THE    REVELATION.  375 

like,"  said  Mrs.  Hinkley.  "  He  made  the  most  heartfelt 
prayer,  and  the  loveliest  blessing  before  meat !  I  think  I 
hear  him  now  — <  Lord,  make  us  thankful' — with  his  eyes 
shut  up  so  sweetly,  and  with  such  a  voice." 

"  There  are  always  some  people,  Brother  Cross,  to  hate 
the  saints  of  the  Lord  and  to  slander  them !  They  lie  in 
wait  like  thieves  of  the  night,  and  roaring  lions  of  the  wil 
derness,  seeking  what  they  may  devour." 

"  Ah,"  exclaimed  Brother  Cross,  "  how  little  do  such 
know  that  they  devour  themselves ;  for  whoso  destroyeth 
his  best  friend  is  a  devourer  of  himself." 

"  The  blindness  of  Satan  is  upon  them,  and  they  do  his 
work." 

And  thus  —  purr,  purr,  purr — they  went  on,  to  the  end 
of  the  chapter.  Poor  Ned  Hinkley  found  the  whole  kennel 
was  upon  him.  Not  only  did  they  deny  everything  that 
could  by  possibility  affect  the  fair  fame  of  the  absent  brother, 
but,  from  defending  him,  they  passed,  with  an  easy  transi 
tion,  to  the  denunciation  of  those  who  were  supposed  to  be 
his  defamers.  In  this  the  worthy  old  man  Calvert  came  in 
for  his  share. 

"All  this  comes  of  your  supporting  that  worthless  boy  of 
mine  in  defiance  of  my  will,"  said  old  Hinkley.  "  You  hate 
Brother  Stevens  because  that  boy  hated  him,  and  because  I 
love  him." 

"  You  are  mistaken,  Mr.  Hinkley,"  said  Calvert,  mildly. 
"  I  hate  nobody ;  at  the  same  time  I  suffer  no  mere  preju 
dices  to  delude  me  against  sight  and  reason." 

"  Ah !"  said  Brother  Cross,  gently,  "  it's  that  very  rea 
son,  Brother  Calvert,  that  ruins  you  worldlings.  You  must 
not  rely  on  human  reason.  Build  on  faith,  and  you  build 
on  the  Rock  of  Ages." 

"  I  propose  to  use  reason  only  in  worldly  matters,  Mr. 
Cross,"  said  the  other  ;  "  for  which  use,  only,  I  believe  it 
was  given  us.  I  employ  it  in  reference  to  a  case  of  ordinary 
evidence,  and  I  beg  your  regards  now,  while  I  draw  your 


376  CHARLEMONT. 

attention  to  the  use  I  make  of  it  in  the  present  instance. 
Will  you  hear  me  without  interruption  ?" 

"  Surely,  Brother  Calvert,  but  call  me  not  Mr.  Cross.  I 
am  not  a  Mister.  I  am  plain  John  Cross  ;  by  virtue  of  my 
business,  a  brother,  if  it  so  please  you  to  esteem  me.  Call 
me  Brother  Cross,  or  Brother  John  Cross,  or  plain  John 
Cross,  either  of  these  will  be  acceptable  unto  me." 

"  We  are  all  brothers,  or  should  be,"  said  Calvert ;  "  and 
it  will  not  need  that  there  should  be  any  misunderstanding 
between  us  on  so  small  a  matter." 

"  The  matter  is  not  small  in  the  eye  of  the  Lord,"  said 
the  preacher.  "  Titles  of  vanity  become  not  us,  and  offend 
in  his  hearing." 

The  old  teacher  smiled,  but  proceeded. 

"  Now,  Brother  Cross,  if  you  will  hear  me,  I  will  pro 
ceed,  according  to  my  reason,  to  dwell  upon  the  proofs 
which  are  here  presented  to  you,  of  the  worthlessness  of  this 
man,  Alfred  Stevens  ;  and  when  you  consider  how  much  the 
feelings  and  the  safety  of  the  daughters  of  your  flock  depend 
upon  the  character  of  those  moral  and  religious  teachers  to 
whom  the  care  of  them  is  intrusted,  you  will  see,  I  think, 
the  necessity  of  listening  patiently,  and  determining  without 
religious  prejudice,  according  to  the  truth  and  reason  of  the 
case." 

"  I  am  prepared  to  listen  patiently,  Brother  Calvert,"  said 
John  Cross,  clasping  his  hands  together,  setting  his  elbows 
down  upon  the  table,  shutting  his  eyes,  and  turning  his  face 
fervently  up  to  heaven.  Old  Hinkley  imitated  this  posture 
quite  as  nearly  as  he  was  able  ;  while  Mrs.  Hinkley,  sitting 
between  the  two,  maintained  a  constant  to-and-fro  motion, 
first  on  one  side,  then  on  the  other,  as  they  severally  spoke 
to  the  occasion,  with  her  head  deferentially  bowing,  like  a 
pendulum,  and  with  a  motion  almost  as  regular  and  method 
ical.  The  movements  of  her  nephew,  Ned  Hinkley,  were 
also  a  somewhat  pleasant  study,  after  a  fashion  of  his  own. 
Sitting  in  a  corner,  he  amused  himself  by  drawing  forth  his 


THE   REVELATION.  377 

"  puppies,"  and  taking  occasional  aim  at  a  candle  or  flower 
pot  ;  and  sometimes,  with  some  irreverence,  at  the  curved 
and  rather  extravagant  proboscis  of  his  worthy  uncle,  which, 
cocked  up  in  air,  was  indeed  something  of  a  tempting  ob 
ject  of  sight  to  a  person  so  satisfied  of  his  skill  in  shooting 
as  the  young  rustic.  The  parties  being  thus  arranged  in  a 
fit  attitude  for  listening,  Mr.  Calvert  began  somewhat  after 
the  following  fashion  :  — 

u  Our  first  knowledge  of  Alfred  Stevens  was  obtained 
through  Brother  John  Cross." 

"  And  what  better  introduction  would  you  have  ?"  de 
manded  old  Hinkley. 

"  None,"  said  the  other,  "  if  Brother  Cross  knew  any 
thing  about  the  party  he  introduced.  But  it  so  happens, 
as  we  learn  from  Brother  Cross  himself,  that  the  first  ac 
quaintance  he  had  with  Stevens  was  made  upon  the  road, 
where  Stevens  played  a  trick  upon  him  by  giving  him  brandy 
to  drink." 

"  No  trick,  Brother  Calvert ;  the  young  man  gave  it  me 
as  a  medicine,  took  it  as  a  medicine  himself,  and,  when  I 
bade  him,  threw  away  the  accursed  beverage." 

"  Ordinary  men,  governed  by  ordinary  reason,  Brother 
Cross,  would  say  that  Stevens  knew  very  well  what  he  was 
giving  you,  and  that  it  was  a  trick." 

"  But  only  think,  Mr.  Calvert,"  said  Mrs.  Hinkley,  lift 
ing  her  hands  and  eyes  at  the  same  moment,  "  the  blessed 
young  man  threw  away  the  evil  liquor  the  moment  he  was 
told  to  do  so.  What  a  sign  of  meekness  was  that !" 

"  I  will  not  dwell  on  this  point,"  was  the  reply  of  Cal 
vert.  "  He  comes  into  our  village  and  declares  his  pur 
pose  to  adopt  the  profession  of  the  preacher,  and  proceeds 
to  his  studies  under  the  direction  of  Brother  Cross." 

"  And  didn't  he  study  them  ?"  demanded  Mrs.  Hinkley. 
"  Wasn't  he,  late  and  early,  at  the  blessed  volume  ?  I 
heard  him  at  all  hours  above  stairs.  Oh !  how  often  was  he 


378  CHARLEMONT. 

on  his  bended  knees  in  behalf  of  our  sinful  race,  ungrateful 
and  misbelieving  that  we  are  !" 

"  I  am  afraid,  madam/'  said  Calvert,  "  that  his  studies 
were  scarcely  so  profound  as  you  think  them.  Indeed,  I 
am  at  a  loss  to  conceive  how  you  should  blind  your  eyes  to 
the  fact  that  the  greater  part  of  his  time  was  spent  among 
the  young  girls  of  the  village." 

"  And  where  is  it  denied,"  exclaimed  old  Hinkley,  "that 
the  lambs  of  God  should  sport  together  ?" 

"  Do  not  speak  in  that  language,  I  pray  you,  Mr.  Hink 
ley,"  said  Calvert,  with  something  of  pious  horror  in  his 
look  ;  "  this  young  man  was  no  lamb  of  God,  but,  I  fear,  as 
you  will  find,  a  wolf  in  the  fold.  It  is,  I  say,  very  well 
known  that  he  was  constantly  wandering,  even  till  a  late 
hour  of  the  night,  with  one  of  the  village  maidens." 

"  Who  was  that  one,  Brother  Calvert  ?"  demanded  John 
Cross. 

"  Margaret  Cooper." 

"  Hem  !"  said  the  preacher. 

"  Well,  he  quarrels  with  my  young  friend,  the  worthy  son 
of  Brother  Hinkley " 

"  Do  not  speak  of  that  ungrateful  cub.  Brother  Stevens 
did  not  quarrel  with  him.  He  quarrelled  with  Brother 
Stevens,  and  would  have  murdered  him,  but  that  I  put  in 
in  time  to  save." 

"  Say  not  so,  Mr.  Hinkley.  I  have  good  reason  to  be 
lieve  that  Stevens  went  forth  especially  to  fight  with  Wil 
liam." 

"  I  would  not  believe  it,  if  a  prophet  were  to  tell  me  it." 

"  Nevertheless,  I  believe  it.  We  found  both  of  them 
placed  at  the  usual  fighting-distance." 

"  Ah !  but  where  were  Brother  Stevens's  pistols  ?" 

"  In  his  pocket,  I  suppose." 

"  He  had  none.  He  was  at  a  distance  from  my  ungrate 
ful  son,  and  flying  that  he  should  not  be  murdered.  The 
lamb  under  the  hands  of  the  butcher.  And  would  you  be- 


THE    REVELATION.  379 

lieve  it,  Brother  Cross,  he  had  gone  forth  only  to  counsel 
the  unworthy  boy  —  only  to  bring  him  back  into  the  fold — 
gone  forth  at  his  own  prayer,  as  Brother  Stevens  declared 
to  Betsy,  just  before  he  went  out." 

"  I  am  of  opinion  that  he  deceived  her  and  yourself." 

"  Where  were  his  pistols  then  ?" 

"  He  must  have  concealed  them.  He  told  Ned  Hinkley, 
this  very  day,  that  he  had  pistols,  but  that  they  were 
here." 

"  Run  up,  Betsy,  to  Brother  Stevens's  room  and  see." 

The  old  lady  disappeared.     Calvert  proceeded. 

"I  can  only  repeat  my  opinion,  founded  upon  the  known 
pacific  and  honorable  character  of  William  Hinkley,  and 
certain  circumstances  in  the  conduct  of  Stevens,  that  the 
two  did  go  forth,  under  a  previous  arrangement,  to  fight  a 
duel.  That  they  were  prevented,  and  that  Stevens  had  no 
visible  weapon,  is  unquestionably  true.  But  I  do  not  con 
fine  myself  to  these  circumstances.  This  young  man  writes 
a  great  many  letters,  it  is  supposed  to  his  friends,  but  never 
puts  them  in  the  post  here,  but  every  Saturday  rides  off,  as 
we  afterward  learn,  to  the  village  of  Ellisland,  where  he 
deposites  them  and  receive  others.  This  is  a  curious  cir 
cumstance,  which  alone  should  justify  suspicion. 

"  The  ways  of  God  are  intricate,  Brother  Calvert,"  said 
John  Cross,  "  and  we  are  not  to  suspect  the  truth  which 
we  can  not  understand." 

"  But  these  are  the  ways  of  man,  Brother  Cross." 

"  And  the  man  of  God  is  governed  by  the  God  which  is 
in  him.  He  obeys  a  law  which,  perhaps,  is  ordered  to  be 
hidden  from  thy  sight." 

"  This  doctrine  certainly  confers  very  extraordinary  priv 
ileges  upon  the  man  of  God,"  said  Calvert,  quietly,  "  and, 
perhaps,  this  is  one  reason  why  the  profession  is  so  prolific 
of  professors  now-a-days ;  but  the  point  does  not  need  dis 
cussion.  Enough  has  been  shown  to  awaken  suspicion  and 
doubt  in  the  case  of  any  ordinary  person ;  and  I  now  come 


380  CHARLEMONT. 

to  that  portion  of  the  affair  which  is  sustained  by  the  testi 
mony  of  Ned  Hinkley,  our  young  friend  here,  who,  what 
ever  his  faults  may  be,  has  been  always  regarded  in  Charle- 
mont,  as  a  lover  and  speaker  of  the  truth." 

"  Ay,  ay,  so  far  as  he  knows  what  the  truth  is,"  said  old 
Hinkley,  scornfully. 

"  And  I'm  just  as  likely  to  know  what  the  truth  is  as 
you,  uncle !"  retorted  the  young  man,  rising  and  coming 
forward  from  his  corner. 

"  Come,  come,"  he  continued,  "  you're  not  going  to  ride 
rough  shod  over  me  as  you  did  over  Cousin  Bill.  I  don't  care 
a  snap  of  the  finger,  I  can  tell  you,  for  all  your  puffed 
cheeks  and  big  bellied  speeches.  I  don't,  I  tell  you !"  and 
suiting  the  action  to  the  word,  the  sturdy  fellow  snapped 
his  fingers  almost  under  the  nose  of  his  uncle,  which  was 
now  erected  heavenward,  with  a  more  scornful  pre-eminence 
than  ever.  The  sudden  entrance  of  Mrs.  Hinkley,  from 
her  search  after  Steven s's  pistols,  prevented  any  rough  issue 
between  these  new  parties,  as  it  seemed  to  tell  in  favor  of 
Stevens.  There  were  no  pistols  to  be  found.  The  old  lady 
did  not  add,  indeed,  that  there  was  nothing  of  any  kind  to 
be  found  belonging  to  the  same  worthy 

"  There  !     That's  enough  !"  said  old  Hinkley. 

"Did  you  find  anything  of  Stevens's,  Mrs.  Hinkley?" 
inquired  Mr.  Calvert. 

"  Nothing,  whatever." 

"  Well,  madam,"  said  Calvert,  u  your  search,  if  it  proves 
anything,  proves  the  story  of  Ned  Hinkley  conclusively. 
This  man  has  carried  off  all  his  chattels." 

John  Cross  looked  down  from  heaven,  and  stared  inquir 
ingly  at  Mrs.  Hinkley. 

"  Is  this  true  ?    Have  you  found  nothing,  Sister  Betsy  ?" 

"  Nothing." 

"  And  Brother  Stevens  has  not  come  back  ?" 

"No!" 

"  And  reason  for  it,  enough,"  said  old  Hinkley. 


THE   REVELATION.  381 

you  hear  that  Ned  Hinkley  threatened  to  shoot  him  if  he 
came  back  ?" 

"Look  you,  uncle,"  said  the  person  thus  accused,  "if 
you  was  anybody  else,  and  a  little  younger,  I'd  thrash  you 
for  that  speech  the  same  as  if  it  was  a  lie !  I  would." 

"  Peace !"  said  Calvert,  looking  sternly  at  the  youth. 
Having  obtained  temporary  silence,  he  was  permitted  at 
length  to  struggle  through  his  narrative,  and  to  place,  in 
their  proper  lights,  all  the  particulars  which  Ned  Hinkley 
had  obtained  at  Ellisland.  When  this  was  done  the  dis 
cussion  was  renewed,  and  raged,  with  no  little  violence,  for 
a  full  hour.  At  length  it  ceased  through  the  sheer  exhaus 
tion  of  the  parties.  Calvert  was  the  first  to  withdraw  from 
it,  as  he  soon  discovered  that  such  was  the  bigotry  of  old 
Hinkley  and  his  wife,  and  even  of  John  Cross  himself, 
that  nothing  short  of  divine  revelation  could  persuade 
them  of  the  guilt  of  one  who  had  once  made  a  religious 
profession. 

Brother  Cross,  though  struck  with  some  of  the  details 
which  Calvert  had  given,  was  afterward  prepared  to  regard 
them  as  rather  trivial  than  otherwise,  and  poor  Ned  was 
doomed  to  perceive  that  the  conviction  was  general  in  this 
holy  family,  that  he  had,  by  his  violence,  and  the  terror 
which  his  pistols  had  inspired,  driven  away,  in  desperation, 
the  most  meek  and  saintly  of  all  possible  young  apostles. 
The  youth  was  nearly  furious  ere  the  evening  and  the  dis 
cussion  were  over.  It  was  very  evident  to  Calvert  that 
nothing  was  needed,  should  Stevens  come  back,  but  a  bold 
front  and  a  lying  tongue,  to  maintain  his  position  in  the 
estimation  of  the  flock,  until  such  time  as  the  truth  would 
make  itself  known — a  thing  which,  eventually,  always  hap 
pens.  That  night  Ned  Hinkley  dreamed  of  nothing  but  of 
shooting  Stevens  and  his  comrade  and  of  thrashing  his  un 
cle.  What  did  Margaret  Cooper  dream  of? 


382  CHARLEMONT. 


CHAPTER   XXXIII. 

STORM   AND   CONVULSION. 

WHAT  did  Margaret  Cooper  dream  of?  Disappointment, 
misery,  death.  There  was  a  stern  presentiment  in  her 
waking  thoughts,  sufficiently  keen  and  agonizing  to  inspire 
such  dreadful  apprehensions  in  her  dreams.  The  tempera 
ment  which  is  sanguine,  and  which,  in  a  lively  mood,  in 
spires  hope,  is,  at  the  same  time,  the  source  of  those  dark 
images  of  thought  and  feeling,  which  appal  it  with  the  most 
terrifying  forms  of  fear ;  and  when  Saturday  and  Saturday 
night  came  and  passed,  and  Alfred  Stevens  did  not  appear, 
a  lurking  dread  that  would  not  be  chidden  or  kept  down, 
continued  to  rise  within  her  soul,  which,  without  assuming 
any  real  form  or  decisive  speech,  was  yet  suggestive  of  com 
plete  overthrow  and  ruin. 

Her  dreams  were  of  this  complexion.  She  felt  herself 
abandoned.  Nor  merely  abandoned.  She  was  a  victim. 
In  her  desolation  she  had  even  lost  her  pride.  She  could 
no  longer  meet  the  sneer  with  scorn.  She  could  no  longer 
carry  a  lofty  brow  among  the  little  circle,  who,  once  hav 
ing  envied,  were  now  about  to  despise  her.  To  the  impa 
tient  spirit,  once  so  strong  —  so  insolent  in  its  strength — • 
what  a  pang — what  a  humiliation  was  here!  In  her 
dreams  she  saw  the  young  maidens  of  the  village  stand 
aloof,  as  she  had  once  stood  aloof  from  them:  —  she  heard 
the  senseless  titter  of  their  laugh ;  and  she  had  no  courage 
to  resent  the  impertinence.  Her  courage  was  buried  in 


STORM   AND   CONVULSION.  383 

her  shame.  No  heart  is  so  cowardly  as  that  which  is  con 
scious  of  guilt.  Picture  after  picture  of  this  sort  did  her 
fancy  present  to  her  that  night ;  and  when  she  awoke  the 
next  morning,  the  sadness  of  her  soul  had  taken  the  color 
of  a  deep  and  brooding  misanthropy.  Such  had  been  the 
effect  of  her  dreams.  Her  resolution  came  only  from  de 
spair  ;  and  resolution  from  such  a  source,  we  well  know,  is 
usually  only  powerful  against  itself. 

It  is  one  proof  of  a  religious  instinct,  and  of  a  universal 
belief  in  a  controlling  and  benevolent  Deity,  that  all  men 
however  abased,  scornful  of  divine  and  human  law,  inva 
riably,  in  their  moments  of  desperation,  call  upon  God. 
Their  first  appeal  is,  involuntarily,  to  him.  The  outlaw, 
as  the  fatal  bullet  pierces  his  breast — the  infidel,  sinking 
and  struggling  in  the  water — the  cold  stony  heart  of  the 
murderer,  the  miser,  the  assassin  of  reputation  as  of  life  — 
all  cry  out  upon  God  in  the  unexpected  paroxysms  of  death. 
Let  us  hope  that  the  instinct  which  prompts  this  involun 
tary  appeal  for  mercy,  somewhat  helps  to  secure  its  bles 
sings.  It  is  thus  also  with  one  who,  in  the  hey-day  of  the 
youthful  heart,  has  lived  without  thought  or  prayer  —  a 
tumultuous  life  of  uproar  and  riot — -a  long  carnival  of  the 
passions  —  the  warm  blood  suppressing  the  cool  thought, 
and  making  the  reckless  heart  impatient  of  consideration. 
Let  the  sudden  emergency  arise,  with  such  a  heart  —  let 
the  blood  become  stagnant  with  disease  —  and  the  involun 
tary  appeal  is  to  that  God,  of  whom  before  there  was  no 
thought.  We  turn  to  him  as  to  a  father  who  is  equally 
strong  to  help  and  glad  to  preserve  us. 

Margaret  Cooper,  in  the  ordinary  phrase,  had  lived  with 
out  God.  Her  God  was  in  her  own  heart,  beheld  by  the 
lurid  fires  of  an  intense,  unmethodized  ambition.  Her  own 
strength — or  rather  the  persuasion  of  her  own  strength — - 
had  been  so  great,  that  hitherto  she  had  seen  no  necessity 
for  appealing  to  any  other  source  of  power.  She  might 
now  well  begin  to  distrust  that  strength.  She  did  so.  Her 


884  CHARLEMONT. 

desperation  was  not  of  that  sort  utterly  to  shut  out  hope  ; 
and,  while  there  is  hope,  there  is  yet  a  moral  assurance  that 
the  worst  is  not  yet — perhaps  not  to  be.  But  she  was 
humbled  —  not  enough,  perhaps — but  enough  to  feel,  the 
necessity  of  calling  in  her  allies.  She  dropped  by  her  bed 
side,  in  prayer,  when  she  arose  that  morning.  We  do  not 
say  that  she  prayed  for  forgiveness,  without  reference  to 
her  future  earthly  desires.  Few  of  us  know  how  to  sim 
plify  our  demands  upon  the  Deity  to  this  one.  We  pray 
that  he  may  assist  us  in  this  or  that  grand  speculation  :  the 
planter  for  a  great  crop ;  the  banker  for  investments  that 
give  him  fifty  per  cent. ;  the  lawyer  for  more  copious  fees ; 
the  parson  for  an  increase  of  salary.  How  few  pray  for 
mercy — forgiveness  for  the  past — strength  to  sustain  the 
struggling  conscience  in  the  future  !  Poor  Margaret  was 
no  wiser,  no  better,  than  the  rest  of  us.  She  prayed — 
silly  woman  !  —  that  Alfred  Stevens  might  keep  his  engage 
ment  ! 

He  did  not !  That  day  she  was  to  be  married !  She 
had  some  reference  to  this  in  making  her  toilet  that  morn 
ing.  The  garments  which  she  put  on  were  all  of  white. 
A  white  rose  gleamed  palely  from  amid  the  raven  hair  upon 
her  brow.  Beautiful  was  she,  exceedingly.  How  beauti 
ful !  but  alas!  the  garb  she  wore — the  pale,  sweet  flower 
on  her  forehead — they  were  mockeries  —  the  emblems  of 
that  purity  of  soul,  that  innocence  of  heart,  which  were 
gone  —  gone  for  ever !  She  shuddered  as  she  beheld  the 
flower,  and  meditated  this  thought.  Silently  she  took  the 
flower  from  her  forehead,  and,  as  if  it  were  precious  as  that 
lost  jewel  of  which  it  reminded  her,  she  carefully  placed  it 
away  in  her  toilet-case. 

Yet  her  beauty  was  heightened  rather  than  diminished. 
Margaret  Cooper  was  beautiful  after  no  ordinary  mould. 
Tall  in  stature,  with  a  frame  rounded  by  the  most  natural 
proportions  into  symmetry,  and  so  formed  for  grace ;  with 
a  power  of  muscle  more  than  common  among  women,  which, 


STORM   AND   CONVULSION.  385 

by  inducing  activity,  made  her  movements  as  easy  as  they 
were  graceful ;  with  an  eye  bright  like  the  morning-star, 
and  with  a  depth  of  expression  darkly  clear,  like  that  of 
the  same  golden  orb  at  night ;  with  a  face  exquisitely  oval ; 
a  mouth  of  great  sweetness  ;  cheeks  on  which  the  slightest 
dash  of  hue  from  the  red,  red  rose  in  June,  might  be  seen 
to  come  and  go  under  the  slightest  promptings  of  the  ac 
tive  heart  within  ;  a  brow  of  great  height  and  corresponding 
expansion  ;  with  a  bust  that  impressed  you  with  a  sense  of 
the  maternal  strength  which  might  be  harbored  there,  even 
as  the  swollen  bud  gives  promises  of  the  full-bosomed  luxu 
riance  of  the  flower  when  it  opens :  add  to  these  a  lofty 
carriage,  a  look  where  the  quickened  spirit  seems  ever 
ready  for  utterance  ;  a  something  of  eager  solemnity  in  her 
speech ;  and  a  play  of  expression  on  her  lips  which,  if  the 
brow  were  less  lofty  and  the  eye  less  keenly  bright,  might 
be  a  smile  —  and  you  have  some  idea  of  that  noble  and 
lovely  temple  on  which  fires  of  lava  had  been  raised  by  an 
unholy  hand  ;  in  which  a  secret  worship  is  carried  on  which 
dreads  the  light,  shrinks  from  exposure,  and  trembles  to  be 
seen  by  the  very  Deity  whose  favor  it  yet  seeks  in  prayer 
and  apprehension. 

These  beauties  of  person  as  we  have  essayed,  though 
most  feebly,  to  describe  them,  were  enhanced  rather  than  les 
sened  by  that  air  of  anxiety  by  which  they  were  now  over 
cast.  Her  step  was  no  longer  free.  It  was  marked  by  an 
unwonted  timidity.  Her  glance  was  no  longer  confident ; 
and  when  she  looked  round  upon  the  faces  of  the  young 
village-maidens,  it  was  seen  that  her  lip  trembled  and 
moved,  but  no  longer  with  scorn.  If  the  truth  were  told, 
she  now  envied  the  meanest  of  those  maidens  that  security 
which  her  lack  of  beauty  had  guarantied.  She,  the  scorner 
of  all  around  her,  now  envied  the  innocence  of  the  very 
meanest  of  her  companions. 

Such  was  the  natural  effect  of  her  unhappy  experience 

17 


386  CHARLEMONT. 

upon  her  heart.  What  would  she  not  have  given  to  be  like 
one  of  them  ?  She  dared  not  take  her  place,  in  the  church, 
among  them.  It  was  a  dread  that  kept  her  back.  Strange, 
wondrous  power  of  innocence  !  The  guilty  girl  felt  that  she 
might  be  repulsed  ;  that  her  frailty  might  make  itself  known 
— must  make  itself  known  ;  and  she  would  be  driven  with 
shame  from  that  communion  with  the  pure  to  which  she  had 
no  longer  any  claim !  She  sunk  into  one  of  the  humblest 
seats  in  the  church,  drawing  her  reluctant  mother  into  the 
lowly  place  beside  her. 

John  Cross  did  not  that  day  address  himself  to  her  case : 
but  sin  has  a  family  similitude  among  all  its  members. 
There  is  an  unmistakeable  likeness,  which  runs  through  the 
connection.  If  the  preacher  speaks  fervently  to  one  sin,  he 
is  very  apt  to  goad,  in  some  degree,  all  the  rest :  and  though 
Brother  Cross  had  not  the  most  distant  idea  of  singling  out 
Margaret  Cooper  for  his  censure,  yet  there  was  a  whisper 
ing  devil  at  her  elbow  that  kept  up  a  continual  commentary 
upon  what  he  said,  filling  her  ears  with  a  direct  application 
of  every  syllabic  to  her  own  peculiar  instance. 

"  See  you  not,"  said  the  demon,  "  that  every  eye  is  turned 
upon  you  ?  He  sees  into  your  soul ;  he  knows  your  secret. 
lie  declares  it,  as  you  hear,  aloud,  with  a  voice  of  thunder, 
to  all  the  congregation.  Do  you  not  perceive  that  you  sit 
alone ;  that  everybody  shrinks  from  your  side  ;  that  your 
miserable  old  mother  alone  sits  with  you ;  that  the  eyes  of 
some  watch  you  with  pity,  but  more  with  indignation  ?  Look 
at  the  young  damsels — late  your  companions  —  they  are 
your  companions  no  longer  !  They  triumph  in  your  shame. 
Their  titter  is  only  suppressed  because  of  the  place  in  which 
they  are.  They  ask :  4  Is  this  the  maiden  who  was  so  wise, 
so  strong  —  who  scorned  us  —  scorned  us,  indeed!  —  and 
was  not  able  to  baffle  the  serpent  in  his  very  first  approach 
es  ?'  Ha !  ha !  How  they  laugh !  Well,  indeed,  they 
may.  It  is  very  laughable,  Margaret — not  less  laughable 
and  amusing  than  strange  !  — that  you  should  have  fallen  ! 


STORM   AND    CONVULSION.  387 

—  so  easily,  so  blindly — and  not  even  to  suspect  what  ev 
ery  one  else  was  sure  of !  0  Margaret !  Margaret !  can  it 
be  true  ?  Who  will  believe  in  your  wit  now,  your  genius, 
your  beauty  ?  Smutched  and  smutted  !  Poor,  weak,  de 
graded  !  If  there  is  pity  for  you,  Margaret,  it  is  full  of 
mockery  too ;  it  is  a  pity  that  is  full  of  bitterness.  You 
should  now  cast  yourself  down,  and  cover  yourself  with 
ashes,  and  cry,  '  Wo  is  me !'  and  call  upon  the  rocks  and 
the  hills  to  cover  you!" 

Such  was  the  voice  in  her  soul,  which  to  her  senses 
seemed  like  that  of  some  jibing  demon  at  her  elbow.  Mar 
garet  tried  to  pray — to  expel  him  by  prayer;  but  the 
object  of  his  mockery  had  not  been  attained.  She  could 
not  surrender  herself  entirely  to  the  chastener.  She  was 
scourged,  but  not  humbled  ;  and  the  language  of  the  demon 
provoked  defiance,  not  humility.  Her  proud  spirit  rose 
once  more  against  the  pressure  put  upon  it.  Her  bright, 
dazzling  eye  flashed  in  scorn  upon  the  damsels  whom  she 
now  fancied  to  be  actually  tittering — scarcely  able  to  sup 
press  their  laughter — at  her  obvious  disgrace.  On  John 
Cross  she  fixed  her  fearless  eye,  like  that  of  some  fallen 
angel,  still  braving  the  chastener,  whom  he  can  not  contend 
with.  A  strange  strength — for  even  sin  has  its  strength 
for  a  season — came  to  her  relief  in  that  moment  of  fiend 
ish  mockery.  The  strength  of  an  evil  spirit  was  accorded 
her.  Her  heart  once  more  swelled  with  pride.  Her  soul 
once  more  insisted  on  its  ascendency.  She  felt,  though  she 
did  not  say : — 

"  Even  as  I  am,  overthrown,  robbed  of  my  treasure,  I 
feel  that  I  am  superior  to  these.  I  feel  that  I  have  strength 
against  the  future.  If  they  are  pure  and  innocent,  it  is  not 
because  of  their  greater  strength,  but  their  greater  obscu 
rity.  If  I  am  overthrown  by  the  tempter,  it  was  because  I 
was  the  more  worthy  object  of  overthrow.  In  their  little 
ness  they  live :  if  I  am  doomed  to  the  shaft,  at  least  it  will 
be  as  the  eagle  is  doomed ;  it  will  be  while  soaring  aloft — 


388  CHARLEMONT. 

while  aiming  for  the  sun — while  grasping  at  the  very  bolt 
by  which  I  am  destroyed !" 

Such  was  the  consolation  offered  by  the  twin-demons  of 
pride  and  vanity.  The  latter  finds  its  aliment  in  the  heart 
which  it  too  completely  occupies,  even  from  those  circum 
stances  which,  in  other  eyes,  make  its  disgrace  and  weak 
ness.  The  sermon  which  had  touched  her  sin  had  not  sub 
dued  it.  Perhaps  no  sermon,  no  appeal,  however  powerful 
and  touching,  could  at  that  moment  have  had  power  over 
her.  The  paroxysm  of  her  first  consciousness  of  ruin  had 
not  yet  passed  off.  The  condition  of  mind  was  not  yet 
reached  in  which  an  appeal  could  be  felt. 

As  in  the  case  of  physical  disease,  so  with  that  of  the 
mind  and  heart,  there  is  a  period  when  it  is  neither  useful 
nor  prudent  to  administer  the  medicines  which  are  yet  most 
necessary  to  safety.  The  judicious  physician  will  wait  for 
the  moment  when  the  frame  is  prepared — when  the  pulse 
is  somewhat  subdued — before  he  tries  the  most  powerful 
remedy.  The  excitement  of  the  wrong  which  she  had  suf 
fered  was  still  great  in  her  bosom.  It  was  necessary  that 
she  should  have  repose.  That  excitement  was  maintained 
by  the  expectation  that  Stevens  would  yet  make  his  appear 
ance.  Her  eye,  at  intervals,  wandered  over  the  assembly  in 
search  of  him.  The  demon  at  her  elbow  understood  her  quest. 

"He  will  not  come,"  it  said;  "you  look  in  vain.  The 
girls  follow  your  eyes  ;  they  behold  your  disappointment ; 
they  laugh  at  your  credulity.  If  he  leads  any  to  the  altar, 
think  you  it  will  be  one  whom  he  could  command  at  pleas 
ure  without  any  such  conditions — one  who,  in  her  wild  pas 
sions  and  disordered  vanity,  could  so  readily  yield  to  his 
desires,  without  demanding  any  corresponding  sacrifices  ? 
Margaret,  they  laugh  now  at  those  weaknesses  of  a  mind 
which  they  once  feared  if  not  honored.  They  wonder,  now, 
that  they  could  have  been  so  deceived.  If  they  do  not 
laugh  aloud,  Margaret,  it  is  because  they  would  spare  your 
shame.  Indeed,  indeed,  they  pity  you  !" 


STORM  AND   CONVULSION.  389 

The  head  of  the  desperate,  but  still  haughty  woman,  was 
now  more  proudly  uplifted,  and  her  eyes  shot  forth  yet 
fiercer  fires  of  indignation.  What  a  conflict  was  going  on 
in  her  bosom.  Her  cheeks  glowed  with  the  strife — her 
breast  heaved ;  with  difficulty  she  maintained  her  seat  in 
flexibly,  and  continued,  without  other  signs  of  discompo 
sure,  until  the  service  was  concluded.  Her  step  was  more 
stately  than  ever  as  she  walked  from  church ;  and  while 
her  mother  lingered  behind  to  talk  with  Brother  Cross,  and 
to  exchange  the  sweetest  speeches  with  the  widow  Thacke 
ray  and  others,  she  went  on  alone — seeing  none,  heeding 
none  —  dreading  to  meet  any  face  lest  it  should  wear  a 
smile  and  look  the  language  in  which  the  demon  at  her 
side  still  dealt.  He  still  clung  to  her,  with  the  tenacity  of 
a  fiendish  purpose.  He  mocked  her  with  her  shame,  goad 
ing  her,  with  dart  upon  dart,  of  every  sort  of  mockery. 
Truly  did  he  mutter  in  her  ears  : — 

"  Stevens  has  abandoned  you.  Never  was  child,  before 
yourself,  so  silly  as  to  believe  such  a  promise  as  he  made 
you.  Do  you  doubt  ?  —  do  you  still  hope  ?  It  is  madness  ? 
Why  came  he  not  yesterday — last  night — to-day  ?  He  is 
gone.  He  has  abandoned  you.  You  are  not  only  alone — 
you  are  lost !  lost  for  ever !" 

The  tidings  of  this  unsolicited  attendant  were  confirmed 
the  next  day,  by  the  unsuspecting  John  Cross.  He  came 
to  visit  Mrs.  Cooper  and  her  daughter  among  the  first  of 
his  parishioners.  He  had  gathered  from  the  villagers 
already  that  Stevens  had  certainly  favored  Miss  Cooper 
beyond  all  the  rest  of  the  village  damsels.  Indeed,  it  was 
now  generally  bruited  that  he  was  engaged  to  her  in  mar 
riage.  Though  the  worthy  preacher  had  very  stoutly  re 
sisted  the  suggestions  of  Mr.  Calvert,  and  the  story  of  Ned 
Hinkley,  he  was  yet  a  little  annoyed  by  them;  and  he 
fancied  that,  if  Stevens  were,  indeed,  engaged  to  Margaret, 
she,  or  perhaps  the  old  lady,  might  relieve  his  anxiety  by 
accounting  for  the  absence  of  his  protege.  The  notion  of 


390  CHARLEMONT. 

Brother  John  was,  that,  having  resolved  to  marry  the 
maiden,  lie  had  naturally  gone  home  to  apprize  his  parents 
and  to  make  the  necessary  preparations. 

But  this  conjecture  brought  with  it  a  new  anxiety.  It 
now,  for  the  first  time,  seemed  something  strange  that 
Stevens  had  never  declared  to  himself,  or  to  anybody  else 
who  his  parents  were — what  they  were — where  they  were 
— what  business  they  pursued ;  or  anything  about  them. 
Of  his  friends,  they  knew  as  little.  The  simple  old  man 
had  never  thought  of  these  things,  until  the  propriety  of 
such  inquiries  was  forced  upon  him  by  the  conviction  that 
they  would  now  be  made  in  vain.  The  inability  to  answer 
them,  when  it  was  necessary  that  an  answer  should  be 
found,  was  a  commentary  upon  his  imprudence  which 
startled  the  good  old  man  not  a  little.  But,  in  the  confi 
dent  hope  that  a  solution  of  the  difficulty  could  be  afforded 
by  the  sweetheart  or  the  mother,  he  proceeded  to  her  cot 
tage.  Of  course,  Calvert,  in  his  communication  to  him, 
had  forborne  those  darker  conjectures  which  he  could  not 
help  but  entertain;  and  his  simple  auditor,  unconscious 
himself  of  any  thought  of  evil,  had  never  himself  formed 
any  such  suspicions. 

Margaret  Cooper  was  in  her  chamber  when  Brother 
Cross  arrived.  She  had  lost  that  elasticity  of  temper 
which  would  have  carried  her  out  at  that  period  among 
the  hills  in  long  rambles,  led  by  those  wild,  wooing 
companions,  which  gambol  along  the  paths  of  poetic  con 
templation.  The  old  man  opened  his  stores  of  scandal  to 
Mrs.  Cooper  with  little  or  no  hesitation.  He  told  her  all 
that  Calvert  had  said,  all  that  Ned  Hinkley  had  fancied 
himself  to  have  heard,  and  all  the  village  tattle  touching 
the  engagement  supposed  to  exist  between  Stevens  and  her 
daughter. 

"  Of  course,  Sister  Cooper,"  said  he,  "  I  believe  nothing 
of  this  sort  against  the  youth.  I  should  be  sorry  to  think 
it  of  one  whom  I  plucked  as  a  brand  from  the  burning.  I 


STORM   AND   CONVULSION.  391 

hold  Brother  Stevens  to  be  a  wise  young  man  and  a  pious ; 
and  truly  I  fear,  as  indeed  I  learn,  that  there  is  in  the  mind 
of  Ned  Hinkley  a  bitter  dislike  to  the  youth,  because  of 
some  quarrel  which  Brother  Stevens  is  said  to  have  had 
with  William  Hinkley.  This  dislike  hath  made  him  con 
ceive  evil  things  of  Brother  Stevens  and  to  misunderstand 
and  to  pervert  some  conversation  which  lie  hath  overheard 
which  Stevens  hath  had  with  his  companion.  Truly,  in 
deed,  I  think  that  Alfred  Stevens  is  a  worthy  youth  of 
whom  we  shall  hear  a  good  account." 

"  And  I  think  so  too,  Brother  Cross.  Brother  Stevens 
will  be  yet  a  burning  and  a  shining  light  in  the  church. 
There  is  a  malice  against  him  ;  and  I  think  I  know  the 
cause,  Brother  Cross." 

"  Ah !  this  will  be  a  light  unto  our  footsteps,  Sister 
Cooper." 

"  Thou  knovvest,  Brother  Cross,"  resumed  the  old  lady 
in  a  subdued  tone  but  with  a  loftier  elevation  of  eyebrows 
and  head — "  thou  knowest  the  great  beauty  of  my  daugh 
ter  Margaret?" 

"  The  maiden  is  comely,  sister,  comely  among  the  maid 
ens  ;  but  beauty  is  grass.  It  is  a  flower  which  blooms  at 
morning  and  is  cut  down  in  the  evening.  It  withereth  on 
the  stalk  where  it  bloomed,  until  men  turn  from  it  with 
sickening  and  with  sorrow,  remembering  what  it  hath  been. 
Be  not  boastful  of  thy  daughter's  beauty,  Sister  Cooper — 
it  is  the  beauty  of  goodness  alone  which  dieth  not." 

"  But  said  I  not,  Brother  Cross,  of  her  wisdom,  and  her 
wit,  as  well  as  her  beauty  ?"  replied  the  old  lady  with 
some  little  pique.  "  I  was  forgetful  of  much,  if  I  spoke 
only  of  the  beauty  of  person  which  Margaret  Cooper 
surely  possesseth,  and  which  the  eyes  of  blindness  itself 
might  see." 

"  Dross,  dross  all,  Sister  Cooper.  The  wit  of  man  is  a 
flash  which  blindeth  and  maketh  dark ;  and  the  wisdom  of 
man  is  a  vain  thing.  The  one  crackleth  like  thorns  beneath 


392  CHARLEMONT. 

the  pot  —  the  other  stifleth  the  heart  and  keepeth  down  the 
soul  from  her  true  flight.  I  count  the  wit  and  wisdom  of 
thy  daughter  even  as  I  count  her  beauty.  She  hath  all,  I 
think  —  as  they  are  known  to  and  regarded  by  men.  But 
all  is  nothing.  Beauty  hath  a  day's  life  like  the  butterfly  ; 
wit  shineth  like  the  sudden  flash  of  the  lightning,  leaving 
only  the  cloud  behind  it ;  and  oh  !  for  the  vain  wisdom  of 
man  which  makes  him  vain  and  unsteady — likely  to  falter 
— liable  to  fall — rash  in  his  judgment — erring  in  his  aims 
— blind  to  his  duty — wilful  in  his  weakness — insolent  to 
his  fellow — presumptuous  in  the  sight  of  God.  Talk  not 
to  me  of  worldly  wisdom.  It  is  the  foe  to  prayer  and 
meekness.  The  very  fruit  of  the  tree  which  brought  sin 
and  death  into  the  world.  Thy  daughter  is  fair  to  behold 
— very  fair  among  the  maidens  of  our  flock^-none  fairer, 
none  so  fair :  God  hath  otherwise  blessed  her  with  a  bright 
mind  and  a  quick  intelligence  ;  but  I  think  not  that  she  is 
wise  to  salvation.  No,  no !  she  hath  not  yearned  to  the 
holy  places  of  the  tabernacle,  unless  it  be  that  Brother 
Stevens  hath  been  mpre  blessed  in  his  ministry  than  I !" 

"  And  he  hath !"  exclaimed  the  mother.  "  I  tell  you, 
Brother  John,  the  heart  of  Margaret  Cooper  is  no  longer 
what  it  was.  It  is  softened.  The  toils  of  Brother  Stevens 
have  not  been  in  vain.  Blessed  young  man,  no  wonder 
they  hate  and  defame  him.  He  hath  had  a  power  over 
Margaret  Cooper  such  as  man  never  had  before ;  and  it  is 
for  this  reason  that  Bill  Hinkley  and  Ned  conspired  against 
him,  first  to  take  his  life,  and  then  to  speak  evil  of  his 
deeds.  They  beheld  the  beauty  of  my  daughter,  and  they 
looked  on  her  with  famishing  eyes.  She  sent  them  a-pack- 
ing,  I  tell  you.  But  this  youth,  Brother  Stevens,  found 
favor  in  her  heart.  They  beheld  the  two  as  they  went 
forth  together.  Ah  !  Brother  John,  it  is  the  sweetest  sight 
to  behold  two  young,  loving  people  walk  forth  in  amity — 
born,  as  it  would  seem,  for  each  other ;  both  so  tall,  and 
young,  and  handsome ;  walking  together  with  such  smiles, 


STOKM   AXD    COXVULSION.  393 

as  if  there  was  no  sorrow  in  the  world ;  as  if  there  was 
nothing  but  flowers  and  sweetness  on  the  path ;  as  if  they 
could  see  nothing  but  one  another ;  and  as  if  there  were 
no  enemies  looking  on.  It  did  my  heart  good  to  see  them, 
Brother  Cross ;  they  always  looked  so  happy  with  one 
another." 

"  And  you  think,  Sister  Cooper,  that  Brother  Stevens 
hath  agreed  to  take  Margaret  to  wife  ?" 

"  She  hath  not  told  me  this  yet,  but  in  truth,  I  think  it 
hath  very  nigh  come  to  that." 

"  Where  is  she  ?" 

"  In  her  chamber." 

"  Call  her  hither,  Sister  Cooper ;  let  us  ask  of  her  the 
truth." 

Margaret  Cooper  was  summoned,  and  descended  with 
slow  steps  and  an  unwilling  spirit  to  meet  their  visiter. 

"  Daughter,"  said  the  good  old  man,  taking  her  hand, 
and  leading  her  to  a  seat,  "  thou  art,  even  as  thy  mother 
sayest,  one  of  exceeding  beauty.  Few  damsels  have  ever 
met  mine  eyes  with  a  beauty  like  to  thine.  No  wonder  the 
young  men  look  on  thee  with  eyes  of  love ;  but  let  not  the 
love  of  youth  betray  thee.  The  love  of  God  is  the  only 
love  that  is  precious  to  the  heart  of  wisdom." 

Thus  saying,  the  old  man  gazed  on  her  with  as  much 
admiration  as  was  consistent  with  the  natural  coldness  of 
his  temperament,  his  years,  and  his  profession.  His  ad 
dress,  so  different  from  usual,  had  a  soothing  effect  upon 
her.  A  sigh  escaped  her,  but  she  said  nothing.  He  then 
proceeded  to  renew  the  history  which  had  been  given  to 
him  and  which  he  had  already  detailed  to  her  mother.  She 
heard  him  with  patience,  in  spite  of  all  his  interpolations 
from  Scripture,  his  ejaculations,  his  running  commentary 
upon  the  narrative,  and  the  numerous  suggestive  topics 
which  took  him  from  episode  to  episode,  until  the  story 
seemed  interminably  mixed  up  in  the  digression. 

But  when  he  came  to  that  portion  which  related  to  the 
17* 


394  CHARLEMONT. 

adventure  of  Ned  Hinkley,  to  his  espionage,  the  conference 
of  Stevens  with  his  companion — then  she  started — then 
her  breathing  became  suspended,  then  quickened — then 
again  suspended — and  then,  so  rapid  in  its  rush,  that  her 
emotion  became  almost  too  much  for  her  powers  of  sup 
pression. 

But  she  did  suppress  it,  with  a  power,  a  resolution,  not 
often  paralleled  among  men  —  still  more  seldom  among 
women.  After  the  first  spasmodic  acknowledgment  given 
by  her  surprise,  she  listened  with  comparative  calmness. 
She,  alone,  had  the  key  to  that  conversation.  She,  alone, 
knew  its  terrible  signification.  She  knew  that  Ned  Hink 
ley  was  honest — was  to  be  believed — that  he  was  too  sim 
ple,  and  too  sincere,  for  any  such  invention ;  and,  sitting 
with  hands  clasped  upon  that  chair — the  only  attitude 
which  expressed  the  intense  emotion  which  she  felt — she 
gazed  with  unembarrassed  eye  upon  the  face  of  the  speaker, 
while  every  word  which  he  spoke  went  like  some  keen, 
death-giving  instrument  into  her  heart. 

The  whole  dreadful  history  of  the  villany  of  Stevens,  her 
irreparable  ruin  —  was  now  clearly  intelligible.  The  mock 
ing  devil  at  her  elbow  had  spoken  nothing  but  the  truth. 
She  was  indeed  the  poor  victim  of  a  crafty  villain.  In  the 
day  of  her  strength  and  glory  she  had  fallen — fallen,  fal 
len,  fallen ! 

"  Why  am  I  called  to  hear  this  ?"  she  demanded  with 
singular  composure. 

The  old  man  and  the  mother  explained  in  the  same 
breath — that  she  might  reveal  the  degree  of  intercourse 
which  had  taken  place  between  them,  and,  if  possible,  ac 
count  for  the  absence  of  her  lover.  That,  in  short,  she 
might  refute  the  malice  of  enemies  and  establish  the  false 
hood  of  their  suggestions. 

"  You  wish  to  know  if  I  believe  this  story  of  Ned 
Hinkley  ?" 

«  Even  so,  my  daughter." 


STORM  AND  CONVULSION.  395 

"Then,  I  do!" 

"  Ha !  what  is  it  you  say,  Margaret  ?" 

"  The  truth." 

"  What  ?"  demanded  the  preacher,  "  you  can  not  surely 
mean  that  Brother  Stevens  hath  been  a  wolf  in  sheep's 
clothing — that  he  hath  been  a  hypocrite." 

"Alas!"  thought  Margaret  Cooper — "  have  I  not  been 
my  own  worst  enemy — did  I  not  know  him  to  be  this  from 
the  first  ?" 

Her  secret  reflection  remained,  however,  unspoken.  She 
answered  the  demand  of  John  Cross  without  a  moment's 
hesitation. 

"  I  believe  that  Alfred  Stevens  is  all  that  he  is  charged 
to  be  —  a  hypocrite  —  a  wolf  in  sheep's  clothing!  —  I  see 
no  reason  to  doubt  the  story  of  Ned  Hinkley.  He  is  an 
honest  youth." 

The  old  lady  was  in  consternation.  The  preacher  aghast 
and  confounded. 

"Tell  me,  Margaret,"  said  the  former,  "hath  he  not 
engaged  himself  to  you?  Did  he  not  promise  —  is  he  not 
sworn  to  be  your  husband  ?" 

"  I  have  already  given  you  my  belief.  I  see  no  reason 
to  say  anything  more.  What  more  do  you  need  ?  Is  he 
not  gone — fled — has  he  not  failed " 

She  paused  abruptly,  while  a  purple  flush  went  over  her 
face.  She  rose  to  retire. 

"  Margaret !"  exclaimed  the  mother. 

"  My  daughter  !"  said  John  Cross. 

"  Speak  out  what  you  know — tell  us  all " 

"  No  !  I  will  say  no  more.  You  know  enough  already. 
I  tell  you,  I  believe  Alfred  Stevens  to  be  a  hypocrite  and  a 
villain.  Is  not  that  enough  ?  What  is  it  to  you  whether 
he  is  so  or  not  ?  What  is  it  to  me,  at  least  ?  You  do  not 
suppose  that  it  is  anything  to  me?  Why  should  you? 
What  should  he  be  ?  I  tell  you  he  is  nothing  to  me  — 
nothing — nothing  —  nothing!  Villain  or  hypocrite,  or 


396  CHARLEMONT. 

what  not  —  lie  is  no  more  to  me  than  the  earth  on  which  I 
tread.  Let  me  hear  no  more  about  him,  I  pray  you.  I 
would  not  hear  his  name  !  Are  there  not  villains  enough 
in  the  world,  that  you  should  think  and  speak  of  one 
only?" 

With  these  vehement  words  she  left  the  room,  and 
hurried  to  her  chamber.  She  stopped  suddenly  before  the 
mirror. 

"  And  is  it  thus  !"  she  exclaimed  —  "  and  I  am " 

The  mother  by  this  time  had  followed  her  into  the 
room. 

""What  is  the  meaning  of  this,  Margaret? — tell  me!" 
cried  the  old  woman  in  the  wildest  agitation. 

"What  should  it  be,  mother?  Look  at  me!  —  in  my 
eyes  —  do  they  not  tell  you  ?  Can  you  not  read  ?" 

"I  see  nothing  —  I  do  not  understand  you,  Marga 
ret." 

"  Indeed!  but  you  shall  understand  me  !  I  thought  my 
face  would  tell  you  without  my  words.  I  see  it  there, 
legible  enough,  to  myself.  Look  again !  —  spare  me  if  you 
can- — spare  your  own  ears  the  necessity  of  hearing  me 
speak!" 

"  You  terrify  me,  Margaret — I  fear  you  are  out  of  your 
mind. 

"  No  !  no !  that  need  not  be  your  fear ;  nor,  were  it  true, 
would  it  be  a  fear  of  mine.  It  might  be  something  to  hope 
—  to  pray  for.  It  might  bring  relief.  Hear  me,  since  you 
will  not  see.  You  ask  me  why  I  believe  Stevens  to  be  a 
villain.  I  know  it." 

"  Ha !  how  know  it !" 

"How!  How  should  I  know  it?  Well,  I  see  that  I 
must  speak.  Listen  then.  You  bade  me  seek  and  make  a 
conquest  of  him,  did  you  not?  Do  not  deny  it,  mother  — 
you  did." 

"  Well,  if  I  did  ?" 

"  I  succeeded  !     Without  trying,  I  succeeded !     He  de- 


STORM   AND   CONVULSION.  397 

clared  to  me  his  love — he  did! — he  promised  to  marry 
me.  He  was  to  have  married  me  yesterday  —  to  have  met 
me  in  church  and  married  me.  John  Cross  was  to  have 
performed  the  ceremony.  Well!  you  saw  me  there — you 
saw  me  in  white  —  the  dress  of  a  bride!  —  Did  he  come? 
Did  you  see  him  there  ?  Did  you  see  the  ceremony  per 
formed  ?" 

"  No,  surely  not  —  you  know  without  asking." 

"I  know  without  asking! — ^surely  I  do! — but  look 
you,  mother — do  you  think  that  conquests  are  to  be  made, 
hearts  won,  loves  confessed,  pledges  given,  marriage-day 
fixed  —  do  these  things  take  place,  as  matters  of  pure  form  ? 
Is  there  no  sensation  —  no  agitation — no  beating  and  vio 
lence  about  the  heart  —  in  the  blood — in  the  brain  !  I  tell 
you  there  is  —  a  blinding  violence,  a  wild,  stormy,  sensa 
tion —  fondness,  forgetfulness,  madness !  I  say,  madness  ! 
madness !  madness  !" 

"  Oh,  my  daughter,  what  can  all  this  mean  ?  Speak 
calmly,  be  deliberate !" 

"  Calm  !  deliberate  !  What  a  monster  if  I  could  be ! 
But  I  am  not  mad  now.  I  will  tell  you  what  it  means. 
It  means  that,  in  taking  captive  Alfred  Stevens  —  in  win 
ning  a  lover — securing  that  pious  young  man — there 
was  some  difficulty,  some  peril.  Would  you  believe  it? 
— there  were  some  privileges  which  he  claimed.  He 
took  me  in  his  arms.  Ha !  ha !  He  held  me  panting  to 
his  breast.  His  mouth  filled  mine  with  kisses " 

"  No  more,  do  not  say  more,  my  child !" 

"  Ay,  more  !  more  !  much  more  !  I  tell  you  —  then  came 
blindness  and  madness,  and  I  was  dishonored — made  a 
woman  before  I  was  made  a  wife !  Ruined,  lost,  abused, 
despised,  abandoned  !  Ha !  ha  !  ha  !  no  marriage  cere 
mony.  Though  I  went  to  the  church.  No  bridegroom 
there,  though  he  promised  to  come.  Preacher,  church, 
bride,  all  present,  yet  no  wedding.  Ha !  ha !  ha !  How 


398  CHARLEMONT. 

do  I  know!  —  Good  reason  for  it,  good  reason — Ha!  ha! 

ah!" 

The  paroxysm  terminated  in  a  convulsion.  The  un 
happy  girl  fell  to  the  floor  as  if  stricken  in  the  forehead. 
The  blood  gushed  from  her  mouth  and  nostrils,  and  she 
lay  insensible  in  the  presence  of  the  terrified  and  misera 
ble  mother. 


THE   FATES   FIND   THE   DAGGER   AND   THE   BOWL.        899 


CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

THE   FATES   FIND   THE   DAGGER   AND  THE  BOWL. 

FOR  a  long  time  she  lay  without  showing  any  signs  of 
life.  Her  passions  rebelled  against  the  restraint  which  her 
mind  had  endeavored  to  put  upon  them.  Their  concen 
trated  force  breaking  all  bonds,  so  suddenly,  was  like  the 
terrific  outburst  of  the  boiling  lava  from  the  gorges  of  the 
frozen  mountain.  Believing  her  dead,  the  mother  rushed 
headlong  into  the  highway,  rending  the  village  with  her 
screams]  She  was  for  the  time  a  perfect  madwoman. 
The  neighbors  gathered  to  her  assistance.  That  much- 
abused  woman,  the  widow  Thackeray,  was  the  first  to  come. 
Never  was  woman's  tenderness  more  remarkable  than  hers 
—  never  was  woman's  watch  by  the  bed  of  sickness  and 
suffering  —  that  watch  which  woman  alone  knows  so  well 
how  to  keep  —  more  rigidly  maintained  than  by  her  !  From 
the  first  hour  of  that  agony  under  which  Margaret  Cooper 
fell  to  earth  insensible,  to  the  last  moment  in  which  her 
recovery  was  doubtful,  that  widow  Thackeray — whose  pas 
sion  for  a  husband  had  been  described  by  Mrs.  Cooper  as 
so  very  decided  and  evident  —  maintained  her  place  by  the 
sick  bed  of  the  stricken  girl  with  all  the  affection  of  a 
mother.  "Widow  Thackeray  was  a  woman  who  could  laugh 
merrily,  but  she  could  shed  tears  with  equal  readiness. 
These  were  equally  the  signs  of  prompt  feeling  and  nice 
susceptibility ;  and  the  proud  Margaret,  and  her  invidious 
mother,  were  both  humbled  by  that  spontaneous  kindness 


400  CKARLEMONT. 

for  which,  hitherto,  they  had  given  the  possessor  so  very 
little  credit,  and  to  which  they  were  now  equally  so  greatly 
indebted. 

Medical  attendance  was  promptly  secured.  Charlemont 
had  a  very  clever  physician  of  the  old  school.  He  combined, 
as  was  requisite  in  the  forest  region  of  our  country,  the 
distinct  offices  of  the  surgeon  and  mediciner.  He  was  tol 
erably  skilful  in  both  departments.  He  found  his  patient 
in  a  condition  of  considerable  peril.  She  had  broken  a 
blood-vessel ;  and  the  nicest  care  and  closest  attendance 
were  necessary  to  her  preservation.  It  will  not  need  that 
we  should  go  through  the  long  and  weary  details  which 
followed  to  her  final  cure.  Enough,  that  she  did  recover. 
But  for  weeks  her  chance  was  doubtful.  She  lay  for  that 
space  of  time,  equally  in  the  arms  of  life  and  death.  For 
a  long  period,  she  herself  was  unconscious  of  her  situa 
tion. 

When  she  came  to  know,  the  skill  of  her  attendants  de 
rived  very  little  aid  from  her  consciousness.  Her  mind 
was  unfavorable  to  her  cure ;  and  this,  by  the  way,  is  a 
very  important  particular  in  the  fortunes  of  the  sick.  To 
despond,  to  have  a  weariness  of  life,  to  forbear  hope  as  well 
as  exertion,  is,  a  hundred  to  one,  to  determine  against  the 
skill  of  the  physician.  Margaret  Cooper  felt  a  willingness 
to  die.  She  felt  her  overthrow  in  the  keenest  pangs  of  its 
shame ;  and,  unhappily,  the  mother,  in  her  madness,  had 
declared  it. 

The  story  of  her  fall — of  the  triumph  of  the  serpent — was 
now  the  village  property,  and  of  course  put  an  end  to  all 
further  doubts  on  the  score  of  the  piety  of  Brother  Stevens  ; 
though,  by  way  of  qualification  of  his  offence,  old  Hinkley 
insisted  that  it  was  the  fault  of  the  poor  damsel. 

"  She,"  lie  said,  "  had  tempted  him— had  thrown  her 
self  in  his  way — had  been  brazen,"  and  all  that,  of  which 
so  much  is  commonly  said  in  all  similar  cases.  We,  who 
know  the  character  of  the  parties,  and  have  traced  events 


THE   FATES   FIND   THE   DAGGER   AND   THE   BOWL.       401 

from  the  beginning,  very  well  know  how  little  of  this  is 
true.  Poor  Margaret  was  a  victim  before  she  was  well 
aware  of  those  passions  which  made  her  so.  She  was  the 
victim  not  of  lust  but  of  ambition.  Never  was  woman  more 
unsophisticated  —  less  moved  by  unworthy  and  sinister 
design.  She  had  her  weaknesses — her  pride,  her  vanity  ; 
and  her  passions,  which  were  tremendous,  worked  upon 
through  these,  very  soon  effected  her  undoing.  But,  for 
deliberate  purpose  of  evil — of  any  evil  of  which  her  own 
intellect  was  conscious — the  angels  were  not  more  inno 
cent. 

But  mere  innocence  of  evil  design,  in  any  one  particular 
condition,  is  not  enough  for  security.  We  are  not  only  to 
forbear  evil ;  virtue  requires  that  we  should  be  exercised 
for  the  purposes  of  good.  She  lacked  the  moral  strength 
which  such  exercises,  constantly  pursued,  would  have  as 
sured  her.  She  was  a  creature  of  impulse  only,  not  of  re 
flection.  Besides,  she  was  ignorant  of  her  particular  weak 
nesses.  She  was  weak  where  she  thought  herself  strong. 
This  is  always  the  error  of  a  person  having  a  very  decided 
will.  The  will  is  constantly  mistaken  for  the  power.  She 
could  not  humble  herself,  and  in  her  own  personal  capacities 
—  capacities  which  had  never  before  been  subjected  to  any 
ordeal-trial — she  relied  for  the  force  which  was  to  sustain 
her  in  every  situation.  Fancy  a  confident  country-girl — 
supreme  in  her  own  district  over  the  Hobs  and  Hirmies 
thereabouts — in  conflict  with  the  adroit  man  of  the  world, 
and  you  have  the  whole  history  of  Margaret  Cooper,  and 
the  secret  of  her  misfortune.  Let  the  girl  have  what  nat 
ural  talent  you  please,  and  the  case  is  by  no  means  altered. 
She  must  fall  if  she  seeks  or  permits  the  conflict.  She  can 
only  escape  by  flight.  It  is  in  consideration  of  this  human 
weakness,  that  we  pray  God,  nightly,  not  to  suffer  us  to  be 
exposed  to  temptation. 

When  the  personal  resources  of  her  own  experience  and 
mind  failed  Margaret  Cooper,  as  at  some  time  or  other 


402  CHARLEMONT. 

they  must  fail  all  who  trust  only  in  them,  she  had  no  further 
reliance.  She  had  never  learned  to  draw  equal  strength 
and  consolation  from  the  sweet  counsels  of  the  sacred  vol 
ume.  Regarding  the  wild  raving  and  the  senseless  insan 
ity,  which  are  but  too  frequently  the  language  of  the  vulgar 
preacher,  as  gross  ignorance  and  debasing  folly,  she  com 
mitted  the  unhappy  error  of  confounding  the  preacher  with 
his  cause.  She  had  never  been  taught  to  make  an  habitual 
reference  to  religion  ;  and  her  own  experience  of  life,  had 
never  forced  upon  her  those  sage  reflections  which  would 
have  shown  her  that  true  religion  is  the  very  all  of  life,  and 
without  it  life  has  nothing.  The  humility  of  the  psalmist, 
which  was  the  real  source  of  all  the  strength  allotted  to  the 
monarch  minstrel,  was  an  unread  lesson  with  her  ;  and  never 
having  been  tutored  to  refer  to  God,  and  relying  upon  her 
own  proud  mind  and  daring  imagination,  what  wonder  that 
these  frail  reeds  should  pierce  her  side  while  giving  way 
beneath  her. 

It  was  this  very  confidence  in  her  own  strength — this 
fearlessness  of  danger  (and  we  repeat  the  lesson  here,  em 
phatically,  by  way  of  warning) — a  confidence  which  the 
possession  of  a  quick  and  powerful  mind  naturally  enough 
inspires  —  that  effected  her  undoing.  It  was  not  by  the 
force  of  her  affections  that  she  fell.  The  affections  are  not 
apt  to  be  strong-  in  a  woman  whose  mind  leads  her  out  from, 
her  sex  ! 

The  seducer  triumphed  through  the  medium  of  her  vanity. 
Her  feeling  of  self-assurance  had  been  thus  active  from 
childhood,  and  conspicuous  in  all  her  sports  and  employ 
ments.  She  had  never  been  a  child  herself.  She  led  always 
in  the  pastimes  of  her  playmates,  many  of  whom  were  older 
than  herself. 

She  had  no  fears  when  others  trembled ;  and,  if  she  did 
not,  at  any  time,  so  far  transcend  the  bounds  of  filial  duty 
as  to  defy  the  counsels  of  her  parents,  it  was  certainly  no 
less  true  that  she  never  sought  for,  and  seldom  seemed  to 


THE    FATES    FIND    THE   DAGGER   AND   THE   BOWL.        403 

need  them.  It  is  dangerous  when  the  woman,  through  sheer 
confidence  in  her  own  strength,  ventures  upon  the  verge  of 
the  moral  precipice.  The  very  experiment,  where  the  pas 
sions  are  concerned,  proves  her  to  be  lost. 

Margaret  Cooper,  confident  in  her  own  footsteps,  soon 
learned  to  despise  every  sort  of  guardianship.  The  vanity 
of  her  mother  had  not  only  counselled  and  stimulated  her 
own,  but  was  of  that  gross  and  silly  order,  as  to  make  itself 
offensive  to  the  judgment  of  the  girl  herself.  This  had  the 
effect  of  losing  her  all  the  authority  of  a  parent ;  and  we 
have  already  seen,  in  the  few  instances  where  this  author 
ity  took  the  shape  of  counsel,  that  its  tendency  was  to  evil 
rather  than  to  good. 

*  The  arts  of  Alfred  Stevens  had,  in  reality,  been  very  few. 
It  was  only  necessary  that  he  should  read  the  character  of 
his  victim.  This,  as  an  experienced  worldling — expe 
rienced  in  such  a  volume — he  was  soon  very  able  to  do. 
He  saw  enough  to  discover,  that,  while  Margaret  Cooper 
was  endowed  by  nature  with  an  extraordinary  measure  of 
intellect,  she  was  really  weak  because  of  its  possession.  In 
due  proportion  to  the  degree  of  exercise  to  which  she  sub 
jected  her  mere  mind — making  that  busy  and  restless  — 
was  the  neglect  of  her  sensibilities  —  those  nice  antennceof 
the  heart. 

"  Whose  instant  touches,  slightest  pause," 

teach  the  approach  of  the  smallest  forms  of  danger,  however 
inoffensive  their  shapes,  however  unobtrusive  their  advance. 
When  the  sensibilities  are  neglected  and  suffered  to  fall  into 
disrepute,  they  grow  idle  first,  and  finally  obtuse !  even  as 
the  limb  which  you  forbear  to  exercise  loses  its  muscle,  and 
withers  into  worthlessness. 

When  Alfred  Stevens  discovered  this  condition,  his  plan 
was  simple  enough.  He  had  only  to  stimulate  her  mind 
into  bolder  exercise — to  conduct  it  to  topics  of  the  utmost 
hardihood — to  inspire  that  sort  of  moral  recklessness  which 


404  CHARLEMONT. 

some  people  call  courage — which  delights  to  sport  along 
the  edge  of  the  precipice,  and  to  summon  audacious  spirits 
from  the  great  yawning  gulfs  which  lie  below.  This  prac 
tice  is  always  pursued  at  the  expense  of  those  guardian 
feelings  which  keep  watch  over  the  virtues  of  the  tender 
heart. 

The  analysis  of  subjects  commonly  forbidden  to  the  sex, 
necessarily  tends  to  make  dull  those  habitual  sentinels 
over  the  female  conduct.  These  sentinels  are  instincts 
rather  than  principles.  Education  can  take  them  away, 
but  does  not  often  confer  them.  When,  through  the  arts 
of  Alfred  Stevens,  Margaret  Cooper  was  led  to  discuss, 
perhaps  to  despise,  those  nice  and  seemingly  purposeless 
barriers  which  society — having  the  experience  of  ages 
for  its  authority — has  wisely  set  up  between  the  sexes 
—  she  had  already  taken  a  large  stride  toward  passing 
them.  But  of  this,  which  a  judicious  education  would 
have  taught  her,  she  was  wholly  ignorant.  Her  mind  was 
too  bold  to  be  scrupulous  ;  too  adventurous  to  be  watchful ; 
and  if,  at  any  moment,  a  pause  in  her  progress  permitted 
her  to  think  of  the  probable  danger  to  her  sex  of  such  ad 
venturous  freedom,  she  certainly  never  apprehended  it  in 
her  own  case.  Such  restraints  she  conceived  to  be  essen 
tial  only  for  the  protection  of  the  weak  among  her  sex. 
Her  vanity  led  her  to  believe  that  she  was  strong  ;  and  the 
approaches  of  the  sapper  were  conducted  with  too  much 
caution,  with  a  progress  too  stealthy  and  insensible,  to 
startle  the  ear  or  attract  the  eye  of  the  unobservant,  yet 
keen-eyed  guardian  of  her  citadel.  An  eagle  perched  upon 
a  rock,  with  wing  outspread  for  flight,  and  an  eye  fixed 
upon  the  rolling  clouds  through  which  it  means  to  dart,  is 
thus  heedless  of  the  coiled  serpent  which  lies  beneath  its 
feet. 

The  bold  eye  of  Margaret  Cooper  was  thus  heedless. 
Gazing  upon  the  sun,  she  saw  not  the  serpent  at  her  feet. 
It  was  not  because  she  slept :  never  was  eye  brighter,  more 


THE   FATES   FIND   THE   DAGGER   AND   THE   BOWL.         405 

far-stretching  ;  never  was  mind  more  busy,  more  active, 
than  that  of  the  victim  at  the  very  moment  when  she  fell. 
It  was  because  she  watched  the  remote,  not  the  near — the 
region  in  which  there  was  no  enemy,  nothing  but  glory — 
and  neglected  that  post  which  is  always  in  danger.  Her 
error  is  that  of  the  general  who  expends  his  army  upon 
some  distant  province,  leaving  his  chief  city  to  the  assault 
and  sack  of  the  invader. 

We  have  dwelt  somewhat  longer  upon  the  moral  causes 
which,  in  our  story,  have  produced  such  cruel  results,  than 
the  mere  story  itself  demands ;  but  no  story  is  perfectly 
moral  unless  the  author,  with  a  wholesome  commentary, 
directs  the  attention  of  the  reader  to  the  true  weaknesses 
of  his  hero,  to  the  point  where  his  character  fails ;  to  the 
causes  of  this  failure,  and  the  modes  in  which  it  may  be 
repaired  or  prevented.  In  this  way  alone  may  the  details 
of  life  and  society  be  properly  welded  together  into  con 
sistent  doctrine,  so  that  instruction  may  keep  pace  with 
delight,  and  the  heart  and  mind  be  informed  without  being 
conscious  of  any  of  those  tasks  which  accompany  the  les 
sons  of  experience. 

To  return  now  to  our  narrative. 

Margaret  Cooper  lived !  She  might  as  well  have  died. 
This  was  her  thought,  at  least.  She  prayed  for  death. 
Was  it  in  mercy  that  her  prayer  was  denied  ?  We  shall 
see !  Youth  and  a  vigorous  constitution  successfully  re 
sisted  the  attacks  of  the  assailant.  They  finally  obtained 
the  victory.  After  a  weary  spell  of  bondage  and  suffering, 
she  recovered.  But  she  recovered  only  to  the  conscious 
ness  of  a  new  affliction.  All  the  consequences  of  her 
fatal  lapse  from  virtue  have  not  yet  been  told.  She  bore 
within  her  an  indelible  witness  of  her  shame.  She  was 
destined  to  be  a  mother  without  having  been  a  wife  ! 

This,  to  her  mother  at  least,  was  a  more  terrible  discov 
ery  than  the  former.  She  literally  cowered  and  crouched 
beneath  it.  It  was  the  written  shame,  rather  than  the 


406  CHAKLEMONT. 

actual,  which  the  old  woman  dreaded.  She  had  been  so 
vain,  so  criminally  vain,  of  her  daughter — she  had  made 
her  so  constantly  the  subject  of  her  brag — that,  unwitting 
of  having  declared  the  whole  melancholy  truth,  in  the  first 
moment  of  her  madness,  she  shrunk,  with  an  unspeakable 
horror,  from,  the  idea  that  the  little  world  in  which  she 
lived  should  become  familiar  with  the  whole  cruel  history 
of  her  overthrow.  She  could  scarcely  believe  it  herself, 
though  the  daughter,  with  an  anguish  in  her  eyes  that  left 
little  to  be  told,  had  herself  revealed  the  truth.  Her  pride, 
as  well  as  her  life,  was  linked  with  the  pride  and  the  beauty 
of  her  child.  She  had  shared  in  her  constant  triumphs  over 
all  around  her ;  and  overlooking,  as  a  fond,  foolish  mother 
is  apt  to  do,  all  her  faults  of  temper  or  of  judgment,  she 
had  learned  to  behold  nothing  but  her  superiority.  And 
now  to  see  her  fallen !  a  thing  of  scorn,  which  was  lately  a 
thing  of  beauty ! — the  despised,  which  was  lately  the  wor 
shipped  and  the  wondered  at !  No  wonder  that  her  weak, 
vain  heart  was  crushed  and  humbled,  and  her  head  bowed 
in  sorrow  to  the  earth.  She  threw  herself  upon  the  floor, 
and  wept  bitter  and  scalding  tears. 

The  daughter  had  none.  Without  sob  or  sigh,  she  stooped 
down  and  tenderly  assisted  the  old  woman  to  rise.  Why 
had  she  no  tears  ?  She  asked  herself  this  question,  but  in 
vain.  Her  external  emotions  promised  none.  Indeed,  she 
seemed  to  be  without  emotions.  A  weariness  and  general 
indifference  to  all  things  was  now  the  expression  of  her  fea 
tures.  But  this  was  the  deceitful  aspect  of  the  mountain, 
on  whose  breast  contemplation  sits  with  silence,  unconscious 
of  the  tossing  flame  which  within  is  secretly  fusing  the  stub 
born  metal  and  the  rock.  Anger  was  in  her  breast — feel 
ings  of  hate  mingled  up  with  shame — scorn  of  herself, 
scorn  of  all — feelings  of  defiance  and  terror,  striving  at 
mastery ;  and,  in  one  corner,  a  brooding  image  of  despair, 
kept  from  the  brink  of  the  precipice  only  by  the  entreaties 
of  some  fiercer  principle  of  hate.  She  felt  life  to  be  insup- 


THE    FATES   FIND   THE   DAGGER   AND   THE   BOWL.        407 

portable.  Why  did  she  live  ?  This  question  came  to  her 
repeatedly.  The  demon  was  again  at  work  beside  her. 

"  Die  !"  said  he.  "  It  is  but  a  blow — a  moment's  pang 
—  the  driving  a  needle  into  an  artery  —  the  prick  of  a  pin 
upon  the  heart.  Die  !  it  will  save  you  from  exposure — the 
shame  of  bringing  into  the  world  an  heir  of  shame  !  What 
would  you  live  for  ?  The  doors  of  love,  and  fame,  even  of 
society,  are  shut  against  you  for  ever.  What  is  life  to  you 
now  ?  a  long  denial — a  protracted  draught  of  bitterness-  - 
the  feeling  of  a  death-spasm  carried  on  through  sleepless 
years  ;  perhaps,  under  a  curse  of  peculiar  bitterness,  carried 
on  even  into  age  !  Die  !  you  can  not  be  so  base  as  to  wish 
for  longer  life !" 

The  arguments  of  the  demon  were  imposing.  His  sug 
gestions  seemed  to  promise  the  relief  she  sought.  Hers 
seemed  the  particular  case  where  the  prayer  is  justified 
which  invokes  the  mountains  and  the  rocks  upon  the  head 
of  the  guilty.  But  the  rock  refused  to  fall,  the  mountain 
to  cover  her  shame,  and  its  exposure  became  daily  more 
and  more  certain.  Death  was  the  only  mode  of  escape 
from  the  mountain  of  pain  which  seemed  to  rest  upon  her 
heart.  The  means  of  self-destruction  were  easy.  With  a 
spirit  so  impetuous  as  hers,  to  imagine  was  to  determine. 
She  did  determine.  Yet,  even  while  making  so  terrible  a 
resolve,  a  singular  calm  seemed  to  overspread  her  soul. 
She  complained  of  nothing — wished  for  nothing — sought 
for  nothing  —  trembled  at  nothing.  A  dreadful  lethargy, 
which  made  the  old  mother  declaim  as  against  a  singular 
proof  of  hardihood,  possessed  her  spirit.  Little  did  the 
still-idolizing  mother  conjecture  how  much  that  lethargy 
concealed ! 

The  moment  that  Margaret  Cooper  conceived  the  idea  of 
suicide,  it  possessed  all  her  mind.  It  became  the  one  only 
thought.  There  were  few  arguments  against  it,  and  these 
she  rapidly  dismissed  or  overcame.  To  leave  her  mother 
in  her  old  age  was  the  first  which  offered  itself;  but  this 


408  CHARLEMONT. 

became  a  small  consideration  when  she  reflected  that  the 
latter  could  not,  under  any  circumstances,  require  her  as 
sistance  very  long ;  and  to  spare  her  the  shame  of  public 
exposure  was  another  consideration.  The  evils  of  the  act 
to  herself  were  reduced  with  equal  readiness  to  the  transi 
tion  from  one  state  to  another  by  a  small  process,  which, 
whether  by  the  name  of  stab  or  shot,  was  productive  only 
of  a  momentary  spasm ;  for,  though  as  fully  persuaded  of 
the  soul's  immortality  as  the  best  of  us,  the  unhappy  girl, 
like  all  young  free-thinkers,  had  persuaded  herself  that,  in 
dying  by  her  own  hands,  she  was  simply  exercising  a  dis 
cretionary  power  under  the  conviction  that  her  act  in  doing 
so  was  rendered  by  circumstances  a  judicious  one.  The 
arguments  by  which  she  deceived  herself  are  sufficiently 
commonplace,  and  too  easy  of  refutation,  to  render  neces 
sary  any  discussion  of  them  here.  Enough  to  state  the 
fact.  She  deliberately  resolved  upon  the  fatal  deed  which 
was  to  end  her  life  and  agony  together,  and  save  her  from 
that  more  notorious  exposure  which  must  follow  the  birth 
of  that  child  of  sin  whom  she  deemed  it  no  more  than  a 
charity  to  destroy. 

There  was  an  old  pair  of  pistols  in  the  house,  which  had 
been  the  property  of  her  father.  She  had  often,  with  a 
boldness  not  common  to  the  sex,  examined  these  pistols. 
They  were  of  brass,  well  made,  of  English  manufacture, 
with  common  muzzles,  and  a  groove  for  a  sight  instead  of 
the  usual  drop.  They  were  not  large,  but,  in  a  practised 
hand,  were  good  travelling-pistols,  being  capable  of  bring 
ing  down  a  man  at  twelve  paces,  provided  there  was  any 
thing  like  deliberation  in  the  holder.  Often  and  again  had 
she  handled  these  weapons,  poising  them  and  addressing 
them  at  objects  as  she  had  seen  her  father  do.  On  one  oc 
casion  she  had  been  made  to  discharge  them,  under  his  own 
instructions  ;  she  had  done  so  without  terror.  She  recalled 
these  events.  She  had  seen  the  pistols  loaded.  She  did 
not  exactly  know  what  quantity  of  powder  was  necessary 


THE   FATES   FIND   THE   DAGGER   AND   THE   BOWL.         409 

for  a  charge,  but  she  was  in  no  mood  to  calculate  the  value 
of  a  thimbleful. 

Availing  herself  of  the  temporary  absence  of  her  mother, 
she  possessed  herself  of  these  weapons.  Along  with  them, 
in  the  same  drawer,  she  found  a  horn  which  still  contained 
a  certain  quantity  of  powder.  There  were  bullets  in  the 
bag  with  the  pistols  which  precisely  fitted  them.  There, 
too,  was  the  mould — there  were  flints — the  stock  was  suf 
ficiently  ample  for  all  her  desires ;  and  she  surveyed  the 
prize,  in  her  own  room,  with  the  look  of  one  who  congratu 
lates  himself  in  the  conviction  that  he  holds  in  his  hand 
the  great  medicine  which  is  to  cure  his  disease.  In  her 
chamber  she  loaded  the  weapons,  and,  with  such  resigna 
tion  as  belonged  to  her  philosophy,  she  waited  for  the  pro 
pitious  moment  when  she  might  complete  the  deed. 

18 


410  CHARLEMONT. 


CHAPTER   XXXY. 

FOLDING  THE  ROBES  ABOUT  HER. 

IT  was  the  sabbath  and  a  very  lovely  day.  The  sun 
never  shone  more  brightly  in  the  heavens ;  and  as  Margaret 
Cooper  surveyed  its  mellow  orange  light,  lying,  like  some 
blessed  spirit,  at  sleep  upon  the  hills  around  her,  and  re 
flected  that  she  was  about  to  behold  it  for  the  last  time,  her 
sense  of  its  exceeding  beauty  became  more  strong  than 
ever.  Now  that  she  was  about  to  lose  it  for  ever,  it  seemed 
more  beautiful  than  it  had  ever  been  before. 

This  is  a  natural  effect,  which  the  affections  confer  upon 
the  objects  which  delight  and  employ  them.  Even  a  tem 
porary  privation  increases  the  loveliness  of  the  external 
nature.  How  we  linger  and  look.  That  shade  seems  so 
inviting;  that  old  oak  so  venerable!  That  rock — how 
often  have  we  sat  upon  it,  evening  and  morning,  and  mused 
strange,  wild,  sweet  fancies !  It  is  an  effort  to  tear  one's 
self  away — it  is  almost  like  tearing  away  from  life  itself; 
so  many  living  affections  feel  the  rending  and  the  straining 
—  so  many  fibres  that  have  their  roots  in  the  heart,  are  torn 
and  lacerated  by  the  separation. 

Poor  Margaret !  she  looked  from  her  window  upon  the 
bright  and  beautiful  world  around  her.  Strange  that  sor 
row  should  dwell  in  a  world  so  bright  and  beautiful ! 
Stranger  still,  that,  dwelling  in  such  a  world,  it  should  not 
dwell  there  by  sufferance  only  and  constraint !  that  it  should 
have  such  sway — such  privilege.  That  it  should  invade 


FOLDING  THE  ROBES  ABOUT  HER.         411 

every  sanctuary  and  leave  no  home  secure.  Ah !  but  the 
difference  between  mere  sorrow  and  guilt !  Poor  Margaret 
could  not  well  understand  that!  If  she  could — but  no! 
She  was  yet  to  learn  that  the  sorrows  of  the  innocent  have 
a  healing  effect.  That  they  produce  a  holy  and  ennobling 
strength,  and  a  juster  appreciation  of  those  evening  shades 
of  life  which  render  the  lights  valuable  and  make  their 
uses  pure.  It  is  only  guilt  which  finds  life  loathsome.  It 
is  only  guilt  that  sorrow  weakens,  and  enslaves.  Virtue 
grows  strong  beneath  the  pressure  of  her  enemies,  and 
with  such  a  power  as  was  fabled  of  the  king  of  Pontus, 
turns  the  most  poisonous  fruits  of  earth  into  the  most  whole 
some  food. 

But,  even  in  the  heart  of  Margaret  Cooper,  where  the 
sense  of  the  beautiful  was  strong,  the  loveliness  of  the 
scene  was  felt.  She  drank  in,  with  strange  satisfaction 
—  a  satisfaction  to  which  she  had  long  been  a  stranger 
— its  soft  and  inviting  beauties.  They  did  not  lessen 
her  sense  of  suffering,  perhaps,  but  they  were  not  with 
out  their  effect  in  producing  other  moods,  which,  once 
taken  in  company  with  the  darker  ones  of  the  soul,  may, 
in  time,  succeed  in  alleviating  them.  Never,  indeed,  had 
the  prospect  been  more  calm  and  wooing.  Silence,  bending 
from  the  hills,  seemed  to  brood  above  the  valley  even  as 
some  mighty  spirit,  at  whose  bidding  strife  was  hushed, 
and  peace  became  the  acknowledged  divinity  of  all.  The 
humming  voices  of  trade  and  merriment  were  all  hushed  in 
homage  to  the  holy  day ;  and  if  the  fitful  song  of  a  truant 
bird,  that  presumed  beside  the  window  of  Margaret  Cooper, 
did  break  the  silence  of  the  scene,  it  certainly  did  not  dis 
turb  its  calm.  The  forest  minstrel  sung  in  a  neighboring 
tree,  and  she  half  listened  to  his  lay.  The  strain  seemed  to 
sympathize  with  her  sadness.  She  thought  upon  her  own 
songs,  which  had  been  of  such  a  proud  spirit ;  and  how 
strange  and  startling  seemed  the  idea  that  with  her,  song 
would  soon  cease  for  ever.  The  song  of  the  bird  would  be 


412  CHAKLEMONT. 

silent  in  her  ears,  and  her  own  song !  What  song  would 
be  hers  ?  What  strain  would  she  take  up  ?  In  what  abode 
— before  what  altars  ? 

This  train  of  thought,  which  was  not  entirely  lost,  how 
ever,  was  broken,  for  the  time,  by  a  very  natural  circum 
stance.  A  troop  of  the  village  damsels  came  in  sight,  on 
their  way  to  church.  She  forgot  the  song  of  birds,  as  her 
morbid  spirit  suggested  to  her  the  probable  subject  of  their 
meditations. 

"They  have  seen  me,"  she  muttered  to  herself  as  she 
hastily  darted  from  the  window.  "  Ay,  they  exult.  They 
point  to  me — me,  the  abandoned — the  desolate — soon  to 
be  the  disgraced!  But,  no!  no!  that  shall  never  be. 
They  shall  never  have  that  triumph,  which  is  always  so 
grateful  a  subject  of  regale  to  the  mean  and  envious !" 

The  voice  of  her  mother  from  below  disturbed  these 
unhappy  meditations.  The  old  lady  was  prepared  for 
church,  and  was  surprised  to  find  that  Margaret  had  not 
made  her  toilet. 

"  What !  don't  you  mean  to  go,  Margaret  ?" 

"  Not  to-day,  mother." 

"  What,  and  the  new  preacher  too,  that  takes  the  place 
of  John  Cross !  They  say  he  makes  a  most  heavenly 
prayer." 

But  the  inducement  of  the  heavenly  prayer  of  the  new 
preacher  was  not  enough  for  Margaret.  The  very  sugges 
tion  of  a  new  preacher  would  have  been  conclusive  against 
her  compliance.  The  good  old  lady  was  too  eager  hersolf 
to  get  under  way  to  waste  much  time  in  exhortation,  and 
hurrying  off,  she  scarcely  gave  herself  time  to  answer  the 
inquiry  of  the  widow  Thackeray,  at  her  own  door,  after  the 
daughter's  health. 

"  I  will  go  in  and  see  her,"  said  the  lighthearted  but 
truehearted  woman. 

"  Do,  do,  ma'am — if  you  please !  She'll  be  glad  to  see 
you.  I'll  hurry  on,  as  I  see  Mrs.  Hinkley  just  ahead." 


FOLDING  THE  ROBES  ABOUT  HER.          413 

The  widow  Thackeray  looked  after  her  with  a  smile, 
which  was  exchanged  for  another  of  different  character 
when  she  found  herself  in  the  chamber  of  Margaret.  She 
put  her  arms  about  the  waist  of  the  sufferer ;  kissed  her 
cheeks,  and  with  the  tenderest  solicitude  spoke  of  her 
health  and  comfort.  To  her,  alone,  with  the  exception  of 
her  mother — according  to  the  belief  of  Margaret — her 
true  situation  had  been  made  known. 

"  Alas !"  said  she,  "  how  should  I  feel — how  should  I 
be !  You  should  know.  I  am  as  one  cursed — doomed, 
hopeless  of  anything  but  death." 

"  Ah !  do  not  speak  of  death,  Margaret,"  said  the  other 
kindly.  "We  must  all  die,  I  know,  but  that  does  not 
reconcile  me  any  more  to  the  thought.  It  .brings  always  a 
creeping  horror  through  my  veins.  Think  of  life — talk  of 
life  only." 

"  They  say  that  death  is  life." 

"  So  it  is,  I  believe,  Margaret ;  and  now  I  think  of  it, 
dress  yourself  and  go  to  church  where  we  may  hear  some 
thing  on  this  subject  to  make  us  wiser  and  better.  Come, 
my  dear — let  us  go  to  God." 

"  I  can  not — not  to-day,  dear  Mrs.  Thackeray." 

"  Ah,  Margaret,  why  not  ?  It  is  to  the  church,  of  all 
places,  you  should  now  go." 

"  What !  to  be  stared  at  ?  To  see  the  finger  of  scorn 
pointing  at  me  wherever  I  turn  ?  To  hear  the  whispered 
insinuation  ?  To  be  conscious  only  of  sneer  and  sarcasm 
on  every  hand  ?  No,  no,  dear  Mrs.  Thackeray,  I  can  not 
go  for  this.  Feeling  this,  I  should  neither  pray  for  myself, 
nor  find  benefit  from  the  prayers  of  others.  Nay,  they 
would  not  pray.  They  would  only  mock." 

"  Margaret,  these  thoughts  are  very  sinful." 

"  So  they  are,  but  I  can  not  think  of  any  better.  They 
can  not  but  be  sinful  since  they  are  mine." 

But  you  are  not  wedded  to  sin,  dearest.     Such  thoughts 


414  CHARLEMONT. 

can  give  you  no  pleasure.  Come  with  me  to  church! 
Come  and  pray !  Prayer  will  do  you  good." 

"  I  would  rather  pray  here.  Let  me  remain.  I  will  try 
to  go  out  among  the  hills  when  you  are  all  engaged  in 
church,  and  will  pray  there.  Indeed  I  must.  I  must  pray 
then  and  pray  there,  if  prayer  is  ever  to  do  me  good." 

"  The  church  is  the  better  place,  Margaret.  One  prays 
better  where  one  sees  that  all  are  praying." 

"  But  when  I  know  that  they  are  not  praying !  When  I 
know  that  envy  is  in  their  hearts,  and  malice,  and  jealousy 
and  suspicion — that  God  is  not  in  their  hearts,  but  their 
fellow  ;  and  not  him  with  friendly  and  fond,  but  with  spite 
ful  and  deceitful  thoughts !" 

"  Ah !  Margaret,  how  can  you  know  this  ?  Judge  not 
lest  ye  be  judged." 

"  It  matters  not,  dear  Mrs.  Thackeray.  God  is  here,  or 
there.  He  will  be  among  the  hills  if  anywhere.  I  will 
seek  him  there.  If  I  can  command  my  thoughts  anywhere, 
it  will  be  in  the  woods  alone.  In  the  church  I  can  not. 
Those  who  hate  me  are  there — and  their  looks  of  hate 
would  only  move  my  scorn  and  defiance." 

"  Margaret,  you  do  our  people  wrong.  You  do  yourself 
wrong.  None  hate  you — none  will  point  to  you,  or  think 
of  your  misfortune ;  and  if  they  did,  it  is  only  what  you 
might  expect,  and  what  you  must  learn  patiently  to  bear, 
as  a  part  of  the  punishment  which  God  inflicts  on  sin. 
You  must  submit,  Margaret,  to  the  shame  as  you  have  sub 
mitted  to  the  sin.  It  is  by  submission  only  that  you  can 
be  made  strong.  The  burden  which  you  are  prepared  to 
bear  meekly,  becomes  light  to  the  willing  spirit.  Come, 
dear  Margaret,  I  will  keep  with  you,  sit  by  you — show  you, 
and  all,  that  I  forget  your  sin  and  remember  only  your 
suffer  ing." 

The  good  widow  spoke  with  the  kindest  tones.  She 
threw  her  arms  around  the  neck  of  the  desolate  one,  and 
kissed  her  with  the  affection  of  a  sister.  But  the  demon 


FOLDING  THE  ROBES  ABOUT  HER.         415 

of  pride  was  uppermost.  She  withstood  entreaty  and  em 
brace. 

"  I  can  not  go  with  you.  I  thank  you,  truly  thank  you, 
dear  Mrs.  Thackeray,  but  I  can  not  go.  I  have  neither  the 
courage  nor  the  strength." 

"They  will  come  —  the  courage  and  the  strength — only 
try.  God  is  watchful  to  give  us  help  the  moment  he  sees 
that  we  really  seek  his  assistance.  By  prayer,  Marga 
ret—" 

"  I  will  pray,  but  I  must  pray  alone.  Among  the  hills  I 
will  pray.  My  prayer  will  not  be  less  acceptable  offered 
among  his  hills.  My  voice  will  not  remain  unheard,  though 
no  chorus  swells  its  appeal." 

"  Margaret,  this  is  pride.'' 

"  Perhaps !" 

"  All !  go  with  me,  and  pray  for  humility." 

"  My  prayer  would  rather  be  for  death." 

"  Say  not  so,  Margaret — this  is  impiety." 

"  Ay,  death  !  —  the  peace,  the  quiet  of  the  grave  —  of  a 
long  sleep  —  an  endless  sleep — where  the  vulture  may  no 
longer  gnaw  the  heart,  nor  the  fire  burn  within  the  brain ! 
For  these  I  must  pray." 

And,  thus  speaking,  the  unhappy  woman  smote  her  throb 
bing  head  with  violent  hand. 

"  Shocking  thought !  But  you  do  not  believe  in  such  a 
sleep  ?  Surely,  Margaret,  you  believe  in  life  eternal  ?" 

"  Would  I  did  not !" 

"0  Margaret! — but  you  are  sick;  you  are  very  fever 
ish.  Your  eyeballs  glare  like  coals  of  fire ;  your  face  seems 
charged  with  blood.  I  am  afraid  you  are  going  to  have 
another  attack,  like  the  last." 

"  Be  riot  afraid.     I  have  no  such  fear." 

"I  will  sit  with  you,  at  least,"  said  the  kind-hearted 
woman. 

"  Nay,  that  I  must  positively  forbid,  Mrs.  Thackeray ;  I 
will  not  suffer  it.  I  will  not  sit  with  you.  Go  you  to 


416  CHARLEMONT. 

church.  You  will  be  late.  Do  not  waste  your  time  on 
me.  I  mean  to  ramble  among  the  hills  this  morning.  That, 
I  think,  will  do  me  more  good  than  anything  else.  There, 
1  am  sure — there  only — I  will  find  peace." 

The  worthy  widow  shook  her  head  doubtfully. 

"  But  I  am  sure  of  it,"  said  Margaret.  "  You  will  see. 
Peace,  peace — the  repose  of  the  heart — the  slumber  of  the 
brain  ! — I  shall  find  all  there  !" 

Mrs.  Thackeray,  finding  her  inflexible,  rose  to  depart, 
but  with  some  irresoluteness. 

u  If  you  would  let  me  walk  with  you,  Margaret — " 

"No!  no!  —  dear  Mrs.  Thackeray — I  thank  you  very 
much ;  but,  with  a  mood  such  as  mine,  I  shall  be  much  bet 
ter  alone." 

"  Well,  if  you  are  resolved — " 

"  I  am  resolved  !  never  more  so." 

These  words  were  spoken  in  tones  which  might  have 
startled  a  suspicious  mind.  But  the  widow  was  none. 

"  God  bless  you !"  she  said,  kissing  her  at  parting.  "  I 
will  see  you  when  I  come  from  church." 

"  Will  you  ?"  said  Margaret,  with  a  significant  but  sad 
smile.  Then,  suddenly  rising,  she  exclaimed: — 

"  Let  me  kiss  you,  dear  Mrs.  Thackeray,  and  thank  you 
again,  before  you  go.  You  have  been  very  kind  to  me, 
very  kind,  and  you  have  my  thanks  and  gratitude." 

Mrs.  Thackeray  was  touched  by  her  manner.  This  was 
the  first  time  that  the  proud  spirit  of  Margaret  Cooper  had 
ever  offered  such  an  acknowledgment.  It  was  one  that  the 
gentle  and  unremitting  kindnesses  of  the  widow  amply  de 
served.  After  renewing  her  promise  to  call  on  her  return 
from  church,  Mrs.  Thackeray  took  her  departure. 

Margaret  Cooper  was  once  more  alone.  When  she  heard 
the  outer  door  shut,  she  then  threw  herself  upon  the  bed, 
and  gave  way  to  the  utterance  of  those  emotions  which, 
long  restrained,  had  rendered  her  mind  a  terrible  anarchy. 
A  few  tears,  but  very  few,  were  wrung  from  her  eyes ;  but 


FOLDING  THE  ROBES  ABOUT  HER.         417 

she  groaned  audibly,  and  a  rapid  succession  of  shivering- 
fits  passed  through  her  frame,  racking  the  whole  nervous 
system,  until  she  scarcely  found  herself  able  to  rise  from 
the  couch  where  she  had  thrown  herself.  A  strong,  deter 
mined  will  alone  moved  her,  and  she  rose,  after  a  lapse  of 
half  an  hour,  to  the  further  prosecution  of  her  purpose. 
Her  temporary  weakness  and  suffering  of  frame  had  no 
effect  upon  her  resolves.  She  rather  seemed  to  be  strength 
ened  in  them.  This  strength  enabled  her  to  sit  down  and 
dictate  a  letter  to  her  mother,  declaring  her  intention,  and 
justifying  it  by  such  arguments  as  were  presented  by  the 
ingenious  demon  who  assists  always  in  the  councils  of  the 
erring  heart. 

She  placed  this  letter  in  her  bosom,  that  it  might  be 
found  upon  her  person.  It  was  curious  to  observe,  next, 
that  she  proceeded  to  tasks  which  were  scarcely  in  unison 
with  the  dreadful  deed  she  meditated.  She  put  her  cham 
ber  in  nice  order.  Her  books,  of  which  she  had  a  tolera 
bly  handsome  collection  for  a  private  library  in  our  forest- 
country,  she  arranged  and  properly  classed  upon  their 
shelves.  Then  she  made  her  toilet  with  unusual  care.  It 
was  for  the  last  time.  She  gazed  upon  the  mirror,  and 
beheld  her  own  beauties  with  a  shudder. 

"  Ah !"  she  thought,  though  she  gave  no  expression  to 
the  thought,  "  to  be  so  beautiful,  yet  fail !" 

It  was  a  reflection  to  touch  any  heart  with  sorrow.  Her 
dress  was  of  plain  white  ;  she  wore  no  ornament — not  even 
a  riband.  Her  hair,  which  was  beautifully  long  and  thick, 
was  disposed  in  a  clubbed  mass  upon  her  head,  very  simply 
but  with  particular  neatness ;  and,  when  all  was  done,  con 
cealing  the  weapon  of  death  beneath  a  shawl  which  she 
wrapped  around  her,  she  left  the  house,  and  stole  away  un 
observed  along  the  hills,  in  the  seclusion  and  sacred  silence 
of  which  she  sought  to  avoid  the  evil  consequences  of  one 
crime  by  the  commission  of  another  far  more  heinous, 

18* 


418  CHARLEMONT. 


CHAPTER   XXXVI. 

SUSPENSE   AND   AGONY. 

AT  the  risk  of  seeming  monotonous,  we  must  repeat  the 
reflection  made  in  our  last  chapter,  that  the  things  we  are 
about  to  lose  for  ever  seem  always  more  valuable  in  the 
moment  of  their  loss.  They  acquire  a  newer  interest  in 
our  eyes  at  such  a  time,  possibly  under  the  direction  of 
some  governing  instinct  which  is  intended  to  render  us  te 
nacious  of  life  to  the  very  last.  Privation  teaches  us  much 
more  effectually  than  possession  the  value  of  all  human  en 
joyments  ;  and  the  moralist  has  more  than  once  drawn  his 
sweetest  portraits  of  liberty  from  the  gloom  and  the  denials 
of  a  dungeon.  How  eloquent  of  freedom  is  he  who  yearns 
for  it  in  vain  !  How  glowing  is  that  passion  which  laments 
the  lost ! 

To  one  dying,  as  we  suppose  few  die,  in  the  perfect  pos 
session  of  their  senses,  how  beautiful  must  seem  the  fading 
hues  of  the  sunlight,  flickering  along  the  walls  of  a  cham 
ber  !  how  heavenly  the  brief  glimpses  of  the  blue  sky  through 
the  half-opened  window !  how  charming  the  green  bit  of 
foliage  that  swings  against  the  pane  !  how  cheering  and  un- 
wontedly  sweet  and  balmy  the  soft,  sudden  gust  of  the  sweet 
south,  breathing  up  from  the  flowers,  and  stirring  the  loose 
drapery  around  the  couch  !  How  can  we  part  with  these 
without  tears  ?  how  reflect,  without  horror,  upon  the  close 
coffin,  the  damp  clod,  the  deep  hollows  of  the  earth  in  which 
we  are  to  be  cabined  ?  Oh,  with  what  earnestness,  at  such 


SUSPENSE   AND    AGONY.  419 

a  moment,  must  the  wholly  conscious  spirit  pray  for  life ! 
how  greedily  will  he  drink  the  nauseous  draught  in  the  hope 
to  secure  its  boon !  how  fondly  will  he  seize  upon  every 
chimera,  whether  of  his  own  or  of  another's  fancy,  in  order 
to  gain  a  little  respite — in  order  still  to  keep  within  the 
grasp  of  mind  and  sight,  these  lovely  agents  of  earth  and 
its  Master,  which,  in  our  day  of  strength  and  exultation, 
we  do  not  value  at  one  half  their  worth !  And  how  full 
of  dread  and  horror  must  be  that  first  awful  conviction 
which  assures  him  that  the  struggle  is  in  vain — that  the 
last  remedy  is  tried  —  that  nothing  is  left  him  now  but 
despair — despair  and  death  !  Then  it  is  that  Christianity 
comes  to  his  relief.  If  he  believes,  he  gains  by  his  loss.  Its 
godlike  ^promise  assures  him  then  that  the  things  which  his 
desires  make  dear,  his  faith  has  rendered  immortal. 

The  truth  of  many  of  these  reflections  made  their  way 
into  the  mind  of  Margaret  Cooper,  as  she  pursued  the  well- 
known  path  along  the  hills.  She  observed  the  objects 
along  the  route  more  narrowly  than  ever.  She  was  taking 
that  path  for  the  last  time.  Her  eyes  would  behold  these 
objects  no  more.  How  often  had  she  pursued  the  same 
route  with  Alfred  Stevens !  But  then  she  had  not  seen 
these  things ;  she  had  not  observed  these  thousand  graces 
and  beauties  of  form  and  shadow  which  now  seemed  to 
crowd  around,  challenging  her  regard  and  demanding  her 
sympathies.  Then  she  had  seen  nothing  but  him.  The 
bitterness  which  this  reflection  occasioned  made  her  hurry 
her  footsteps ;  but  there  was  an  involuntary  shudder  that 
passed  through  her  frame,  when,  in  noting  the  strange 
beauty  of  the  path,  she  reflected  that  it  would  be  trodden 
by  her  for  the  last  time.  Her  breathing  became  quickened 
by  the  reflection.  She  .pressed  forward  up  the  hills.  The 
forests  grew  thick  around  her — deep,  dim,  solemn,  and  in 
viting.  The  skies  above  looked  down  in  little  blessed  blue 
tufts,  through  the  crowding  tree-tops.  The  long  vista  of 
the  woods  led  her  onward  in  wandering  thoughts. 


420  CIIARLEMONT. 

To  fix  these  thoughts — to  keep  them  from  wandering ! 
This  was  a  difficulty.  Margaret  Cooper  strove  to  do  so, 
but  she  could  not.  Never  did  her  mind  seem  such  a  per 
fect  chaos  —  so  full  of  confused  and  confusing  objects  and 
images.  Her  whole  life  seemed  to  pass  in  review  before 
her.  All  her  dreams  of  ambition,  all  the  struggles  of  her 
genius  !  Were  these  to  be  thrown  away  ?  Were  these  all 
to  be  wasted  ?  Was  her  song  to  be  unheard  ?  Was  her 
passionate  and  proud  soul  to  have  no  voice  ?  If  death  is 
terrible  to  man,  it  is  terrible,  not  as  a  pang,  but  as  an  ob 
livion  ;  and  to  the  soul  of  genius,  oblivion  is  a  soul-death, 
and  its  thought  is  a  source  of  tenfold  terror. 

"  But  of  what  avail  were  life  to  me  now  ?  Even  should 
I  live,"  said  the  wretched  woman,  "  would  it  matter  more 
to  the  ambition  which  I  have  had,  and  to  the  soul  which 
flames  and  fevers  within  me  ?  Who  would  hearken  to  the 
song  of  the  degraded  ?  Who,  that  heard  the  story  of  my 
shame,  would  listen  to  the  strains  of  my  genius  ?  Say  that 
its  utterance  is  even  as  proud  as  my  own  vanity  of  heart 
would  esteem  it — say  that  no  plaint  like  mine  had  ever 
touched  the  ear  or  lifted  the  heart  of  humanity  !  Alas  !  of 
what  avail !  The  finger  of  scorn  would  be  uplifted  long  be 
fore  the  voice  of  applause.  The  sneer  and  sarcasm  of  the 
worldling  would  anticipate  the  favoring  judgment  of  the  in 
dulgent  and  the  wise.  Who  would  do  justice  to  my  cause  ? 
Who  listen  ?  Alas  !  the  voice  of  genius  would  be  of  little 
avail  speaking  from  the  lips  of  the  dishonored. 

"  To  the  talent  which  I  have,  and  the  ambition  which 
still  burns  within  me,  life  then  can  bring  nothing — no  ex 
ercise  — no  fruition.  Suppose,  then,  that  the  talent  is  left 
to  slumber — the  ambition  stifled  till  it  has  no  further 
longings  !  Will  life  yield  any  thing*  to  the  mere  creature  of 
society — to  my  youth — to  my  beauty — to  my  sense  of  de 
light — if  still  there  be  any  such  sense  left  to  me  ?  Shall  I 
be  less  the  creature  of  social  scorn,  because  I  have  yielded 
my  ambition — because  I  have  forborne  the  employment  of 


SUSPENSE   AND   AGONY.  421 

those  glorious  gifts  which  Heaven  in  its  bounty  has  allotted 
me? 

"  Alas !  no  !  am  I  not  a  woman,  one  of  that  frail,  feeble 
sex,  whose  name  is  weakness?  —  of  whom,  having  no 
strength,  man  yet  expects  the  proofs  of  the  most  unyielding 
—  of  a  firmness  which  he  himself  can  not  exercise — of  a 
power  of  self-denial  and  endurance  of  which  he  exhibits  no 
example.  If  I  weep,  he  smiles  at  my  weakness.  If  I  stifle 
my  tears,  he  denounces  my  unnatural  hardihood.  If  I  am 
cold  and  unyielding,  I  am  masculine  and  neglected — if  I 
am  gentle  and  pliant,  my  confidence  is  abused  and  my  per 
son  dishonored.  What  can  society,  which  is  thus  exacting, 
accord  to  me,  then,  as  a  mere  woman  ?  What  shame  will 
it  not  thrust  upon  me — a  woman — and  as  I  am  ? 

"  Life  then  promises  me  nothing.  The  talenj;  which  I 
have,  lies  within  me  idle  and  without  hope  of  use.  The 
pure  name  of  the  woman  is  lost  to  me  for  ever.  Shame 
dogs  my  footsteps.  Scorn  points  its  finger.  Life,  and  all 
that  it  brings  to  others  —  love,  friends,  fame,  fortune  — 
which  are  the  soul  of  life — these  are  lost  to  me  for  ever. 
The  moral  death  is  here  already.  The  mere  act  of  dying, 
is  simply  the  end  of  a  strife,  and  a  breathing  and  an  agony. 
That  is  all !" 

The  day  became  overcast.  A  cloud  obscured  the  sun 
light.  The  blue  tufts  of  sky  no  longer  looked  downward 
through  the  openings  of  the  trees.  The  scene,  dim  and 
silent  before,  became  unusually  dark.  The  aspect  of  nature 
seemed  congenial  with  the  meditated  deed.  She  had  rea 
soned  herself  into  its  commission,  and  she  reproached  her 
self  mentally  with  her  delay.  Any  self-suggestion  of  an 
infirmity  of  purpose,  with  a  nature  such  as  hers,  would  have 
produced  precipitation.  She  turned  down  a  slight  gorge 
among  the  hills  where  the  forest  was  more  close.  She 
knelt  beneath*a  tree  and  laid  down  her  pistol  at  its  foot. 

She  knelt — strange  contradiction  ! — she  knelt  for  the 
purposes  of  prayer.  But  she  could  not  pray.  It  would 


422  CHARLEMONT. 

seem  that  she  attributed  this  effort  to  the  sight  of  the  pis 
tols,  and  she  put  them  behind  her  without  changing  her 
position.  The  prayer,  if  she  made  any,  was  internal ;  and, 
at  all  events  it  did  not  seem  to  be  satisfactory.  Yet,  before 
it  was  ended,  she  started  with  an  expression  of  painful 
thought  upon  her  face.  The  voice  of  her  reason  had  ceased 
its  utterance.  The  voice  of  her  conscience,  perhaps,  had 
been  unheard ;  but  there  was  yet  another  voice  to  be  heard 
which  was  more  potent  than  all. 

It  was  the  mother's  voice  ! 

She  placed  her  hand  upon  her  side  with  a  spasmodic 
effort.  The  quickening  of  a  new  life  within  her,  made  that 
new  voice  effectual.  She  threw  herself  on  the  ground  and 
wept  freely.  For  the  first  time  she  wept  freely.  The  tears 
were  those  of  the  mother.  The  true  fountain  of  tears  had 
been  touched.  That  first  throb  of  the  innocent  pledge  of 
guilty  passion  subdued  the  fiend.  She  could  have  taken 
her  own  life,  but  dared  not  lift  the  deadly  weapon  against 
that.  The  arm  of  the  suicide  was  arrested.  She  groaned, 
she  wept,  bitterly  and  freely.  She  was  at  once  feebler  and 
more  strong.  Feebler,  as  regarded  her  late  resolution ; 
stronger  as  regarded  the  force  of  her  affections,  the  sweet 
humanities,  not  altogether  subdued  within  her  heart.  The 
slight  pulsation  of  that  infant  in  her  womb  had  been  more 
effectual  than  the  voice  of  reason,  or  conscience,  or  femi 
nine  dread.  The  maternal  feeling  is,  perhaps,  the  most  im 
perious  of  all  those  which  gather  in  the  heart  of  woman. 

Margaret  Cooper,  however,  had  not  altogether  resolved 
against  the  deed.  She  only  could  not  do  it  there  and  then. 
Her  wretched  determination  was  not  wholly  surrendered, 
but  it  was  touched,  enfeebled  ;  and  with  the  increasing 
powers  of  reflection,  the  impetuosity  of  the  will  became 
naturally  lessened.  Those  few  glimpses  along  the  road 
side  which  had  made  her  sensible  to  the  bfauties  she  was 
about  to  lose,  had  prepared  her  mind  to  act  in  counterac 
tion  of  her  impulse;  and  the  event  which  had  brought  into 


SUSPENSE  AND   AGONY.  423 

play  the  maternal  instinct,  naturally  helped  the  cause  of 
reason  in  her  soul. 

Still,  with  the  erring  pride  of  youth  she  reproached  her 
self  with  her  infirmity  of  purpose.  She  resolved  to  change 
her  ground,  as  if  the  instinct  which  had  been  awakened  in 
one  spot  would  not  everywhere  pursue  her.  Time  was 
gained,  and  in  such  cases,  to  gain  time  is  everything.  Per 
haps  no  suicide  would  ever  take  place  if  the  individual 
would  wait  ten  minutes.  The  soul  takes  its  color  from  the 
cloud,  and  changes  its  moods  as  often.  It  is  one  of  the  best 
lessons  to  the  young,  to  wait !  wait !  wait !  One  of  the 
surest  signs  of  strength  is  where  the  individual  waits  patiently 
and  makes  no  complaint. 

Margaret  Cooper  changed  her  ground.  The  spot  was  a 
wild  one.  A  broken  ledge  of  rock  was  at  her  feet,  and 
just  below  it  ran  a  dark,  narrow  winding  footpath  half- 
obscured  by  the  undergrowth.  Here  she  once  more  pro 
ceeded  to  nerve  her  mind  for  the  commission  of  the  deed, 
but  she  had  not  been  there  an  instant  when  she  was  sur 
prised  to  hear  the  sound  of  voices. 

This  was  unusual.  Who  could  they  be  ?  The  villagers 
were  not  apt  to  stray  from  church-service  whenever  a 
preacher  was  to  be  found,  and  there  was  a  new  one,  and 
consequently  a  new  attraction,  that  day,  for  the  spiritual 
hungry  of  Charlemont.  The  path  below  was  seldom  trod 
den  except  by  herself  and  an  occasional  sportsman.  The 
idea  that  entered  her  mind  was,  that  her  purpose  had  been 
suspected,  and  that  she  was  pursued. 

With  this  idea,  she  placed  the  pistol  to  her  breast.  She 
had  already  cocked  the  weapon.  Her  finger  was  on  the 
trigger.  But  the  tones  of  another  voice  reached  her  ears 
from  below.  They  were  those  of  a  woman — sweet,  rnusi- 
cal>  and  tender. 

A  new  light  broke  in  upon  her  mind.  This  was  the  lan 
guage  of  love.  And  who  were  these  new  lovers  in  Charle 
mont  ?  Could  it  be  that  the  voice  of  the  male  speaker  was 


424  CHARLEJIOXT. 

that  of  Stevens  ?  Something  in  the  tone  sounded  like  it. 
Involuntarily,  with  this  impression,  the  weapon  was  turned 
from  her  own  bosom,  and  addressed  in  the  direction  in 
which  the  persons  below  were  approaching.  A  sudden, 
joyous  feeling  touched  her  soul.  The  thought  to  destroy 
the  criminal  by  whom  she  had  been  destroyed  was  a  source 
of  exultation.  She  felt  that  she  could  do  it.  Both  pistols 
were  in  her  hand.  The  pathway  was  not  more  than  twenty 
paces  distant ;  and  her  nerves,  for  the  first  time,  braced  to 
an  unusual  tension,  trembled  with  the  new  excitement  in 
her  soul. 

The  intruders  continued  to  approach.  Their  voices  be 
came  more  distinct,  and  Margaret  Cooper  was  soon  unde 
ceived  as  to  one  of  them  being  that  of  Alfred  Stevens.  She 
was  compelled  to  lie  close,  that  she  might  not  betray  her 
position  and  purpose.  The  male  speaker  was  very  urgent ; 
the  voice  seemed  that  of  a  stranger.  That  of  the  female 
was  not  so  clearly  distinguishable,  yet  it  seemed  more  fa 
miliar  to  the  unintentional  listener. 

Something  of  feminine  curiosity  now  entered  the  bosom 
of  Margaret  Cooper.  Crouching  where  she  was,  she  depos 
ited  the  pistols  at  her  feet.  She  remained  breathlessly,  for 
the  slightest  movement  would  have  revealed  her  to  the  per 
sons  who  were  now  just  below.  They  passed  close  beneath 
the  place  of  her  concealment,  and  she  soon  discovered  that 
they  were  lovers  ;  and  what  their  language  was*  even  if  she 
had  not  heard  it,  might  have  been  conjectured. 

The  girl  was  a  very  pretty  brunette  of  Charlemont — a 
sweet,  retiring  damsel  of  her  own  age,  named  Rivers — 
whom  she  knew  only  slightly.  She  was  a  shy,  gentle,  un- 
presuming  girl,  whom,  for  this  reason,  perhaps,  Margaret 
had  learned  to  look  upon  without  dislike  or  scorn.  Her 
companion  was  a  youth  whom  Margaret  had  known  when 
a  lad,  but  who  had  been  absent  on  the  Mississippi  for  two 
years.  His  tall  and  masculine  but  well-made  and  graceful 
person  sufficiently  accounted  for,  while  it  justified,  the  taste 


SUSPENSE   AND    AGONY.  425 

of  the  maiden.  He  was  a  youth  of  fine,  frank,  manly  coun 
tenance.  His  garb  was  picturesque,  that  of  a  bold  border- 
hunter,  with  hunting-frock  of  yellow  buckskin,  and  Indian 
leggings. 

The  girl  looked  up  to  him  with  an  expression  at  once  of 
eagerness  and  timidity.  Confidence  and  maiden  bashful- 
ness  spoke  equally  in  the  delight  which  glowed  upon  her 
features.  The  bright  eyes  and  sun-burned  features  of  the 
youth  were  flushed  with  the  feeling  of  happy  triumph  and 
assuring  love.  The  relation  of  the  two  was  sufficiently  evi 
dent  from  their  looks,  even  had  they  no  other  language. 

What  were  the  emotions  of  Margaret  Cooper  as  she 
looked  down  upon  this  pair  ?  At  first  she  thought,  as  will- 
most  persons :  "  Surely  there  is  nothing  in  nature  so  lovely 
as  the  union  of  two  fond,  devoted  hearts.  The  picture  is 
one  equally  of  moral  -and  physical  beauty.  The  slight, 
fragile,  depending  damsel,  hanging  in  perfect  confidence  on 
the  arm  of  the  manly,  lofty,  and  exulting  youth — looking 
up  into  his  eyes  in  hope,  while  he  returns  the  gaze  with 
pride  and  fondness  !  Unconscious  of  all  things  but  the  love 
which  to  them  is  life  and  all  things  besides,  they  move  along 
the  forest  way  and  know  not  its  solitude ;  they  linger  and 
loiter  along  its  protracted  paths,  and  see  not  their  length ; 
they  cling  together  through  the  lengthened  hours,  and  fancy 
they  have  lost  no  time ;  they  hear  each  other's  voices,  and 
believe  that  life  is  all  music  and  delight." 

"While  Margaret  Cooper  looked  down  and  heard  the 
pleadings  and  promises  of  the  youth,  and  beheld  the  sweet 
emotions  of  his  companion,  engaged  in  a  pleasant  struggle 
between  her  hopes  and  misgivings,  she  scarcely  restrained 
herself  from  rising  where  she  was  and  crying  aloud  —  like 
another  Cassandra,  not  to  be  believed :  "  Beware !  beware !" 

But  the  warning  of  Margaret  Cooper  would  have  been 
unnecessary.  The  girl  was  not  only  free  from  danger,  but 
she  was  superior  to  it.  She  had  the  wholesome  fear  of 
doing  wrong  too  strongly  .impressed  upon  her  by  education 


426  CHARLEMONT. 

—  she  bad  too  little  confidence  in  herself — was  too  well 
assured  of  her  own  weakness  —  to  suffer  herself,  even  for  a 
moment,  to  depart,  in  either  thought  or  deed,  from  those 
quiet  but  stern  proprieties  of  conduct  which  are  among  the 
best  securities  of  the  young.  While  she  looked  in  her  lov 
er's  face  with  confidence,  and  held  his  arm  with  the  grasp 
of  one  who  is  sure  of  a  right  to  do  so,  there  was  an  air  of 
childish  simplicity  in  her  manner  which  was  wholly  at  va 
riance  with  wild  passions  and  improper  fancies.  While  the 
hunter  maintained  her  on  his  arm,  and  looked  down  into  her 
eyes  with  love,  his  glance  was  yet  as  respectful,  as  unex- 
pressive  of  presumption,  as  her  own.  Had  the  eyes  of  all 
Charlernont  been  looking  on,  they  would  have  beheld  noth 
ing  in  the  conduct  of  either  which  could  have  incurred  the 
censure  of  the  most  becoming  delicacy. 

Keen  was  the  emotion  and  bitter  was  the  thought  which 
worked  in  the  mind  of  Margaret  Cooper.  She  looked  on 
the  deportment  of  that  young  maiden,  whose  intellect  at 
another  day  she  would  have  despised,  with  envy  and  regret. 
Truer  thoughts  and  feelings  came  to  her  as  she  listened  to 
the  innocent  but  fond  dialogue  between  the  unconscious 
pair.  The  hunter  was  pursuing  an  erratic  life  of  enterprise 
and  industry,  then  very  common  among  the  western  youth. 
He  had  been  down  upon  the  Mississippi,  seeking  his  for 
tune  in  such  adventures  as  make  border-life  in  our  country 
something  like  the  more  civilized  life  of  the  middle  ages. 
He  had  returned  after  a  long  absence,  to  claim  the  bride 
whose  affections  he  had  won  long  before  he  had  departed. 

Never  had  knight-errant  been  more  true  to  his  mistress. 
Her  image  had  been  his  talisman  as  well  against  danger 
from  without,  as  against  the  demon  within.  It  had  never 
left  his  mind,  and  he  now  returned  for  his  reward.  He 
had  returned  to  Charlemont  just  before  the  church  service 
had  begun,  and,  being  unprepared  to  go  thither,  had  found 
no  difficulty  in  persuading  his  sweetheart  to  give  the  hour 
of  morning  service  to  himself. 


SUSPENSE   AND   AGONY.  427 

Mixed  up  with  his  professions  of  love  was  the  story  of 
his  wanderings.  Never  were  adventures  more  interesting 
to  any  auditor.  Never  was  auditor  more  easily  moved  by 
the  transitions  of  the  tale  from  tears  to  smiles,  and  from 
smiles  again  to  tears.  His  risks  and  rewards ;  his  defeats 
and  successes;  his  wild  adventures  by  fell  and  flood — not 
perhaps  so  perilous  as  those  of  Othello,  but  such  as  proved 
he  had  the  soul  to  encounter  the  worst  in  Othello's  experi 
ence,  and  maintain  himself  as  well — drew  largely  on  the 
maiden's  wonder  and  delight,  increased  her  tenderness  and 
tremors,  and  made  her  quite  as  devoted  to  her  hero  as 
ever  was  Desdemona  to  her  dusky  chief.  As  they  went 
from  hearing  below,  the  manner  in  which  the  hunter  con 
cluded  his  narrative  provided  a  sufficient  test  for  the  faith 
of  his  companion. 

"  And  now,  Selina,  you  see  all  the  risks  and  the  dangers. 
There's  work  and  perhaps  trouble  for  you  to  go  down  with 
me  along  the  Choctaw  borders.  But  if  there's  work,  I  am 
the  man  to  do  my  own  share,  and  help  you  out  in  yours ; 
and,  if  there's  trouble,  here's  the  breast  to  stand  it  first, 
and  here's  the  arm  to  drive  it  back,  so  that  it'll  never 
trouble  yours.  No  danger  shall  come  to  you,  so  long  as  I 
can  stand  up  between  it  and  you.  If  so  be  that  you  love 
me  as  you  say,  there's  one  way  to  show  it :  you'll  soon 
make  up  your  mind  to  go  with  me.  If  yon  don't,  why — " 

"  But  you  know  I  do  love  you,  John — "  murmured  the 
girl. 

"  Don't  I  believe  it  ?  Well,  if  what  you  say  means  what 
it  should,  you're  ready.  Here's  my  hand,  and  all  that  it's 
good  for.  It  can  work  for  you  and  fight  for  you,  Selina, 
and  it's  yours  etarnally,  with  all  that  I  have." 

The  hand  of  the  girl  was  silently  put  into  that  of  the 
speaker.  The  tears  were  in  her  eyes  ;  but,  if  she  made  any 
other  answer,  it  was  unheard  by  Margaret  Cooper.  The 
rustic  pair  moved  from  sight  even  as  they  spoke,  and  the 
deSolate  woman  once  more  remained  alone ! 


428  CHARLEMONT. 


CHAPTER   XXXVII. 

SHAME  AND  DEATH  —  THE  OATH. 

MARGARET  COOPER  was  at  length  permitted  to  emerge 
from  the  place  of  her  concealment.  The  voices  of  the  lov 
ers  were  lost,  as  well  as  their  forms,  in  the  wooded  distance. 
Dreaming,  like  children  as  they  were,  of  life  and  happiness, 
they  had  wandered  off,  too  happy  to  fancy  for  a  moment 
that  the  world  contained,  in  its  wide,  vast  bosom,  one  crea 
ture  half  so  wretched  as  she  who  hung  above  them,  brood 
ing,  like  some  wild  bird  of  the  cliff,  over  the  storm  which 
had  robbed  her  of  her  richest  plumage. 

She  sank  back  into  the  woods.  She  no  longer  had  the 
heart  to  commit  the  meditated  crime.  This  purpose  had 
left  her  mind.  It  had  given  place  to  another,  however, 
scarcely  less  criminal.  We  have  seen  her,  under  the  first 
impression  that  the  stranger  whose  voice  she  heard  was 
Alfred  Stevens,  turning  the  muzzle  of  the  pistol  from  her 
breast  to  the  path  on  which  he  was  approaching.  Though 
she  discovered  her  error,  and  laid  the  weapon  down,  the 
sudden  suggestion  of  her  mind,  at  that  moment,  gave  a  new 
direction  to  her  mood. 

Why  should  she  not  seek  to  avenge  her  wrong  ?  Was 
he  to  escape  without  penalty  ?  was  she  to  be  a  quiescent 
victim  ?•  True,  she  was  a  woman,  destined  it  would  seem 
to  suffer — perhaps  with  a  more  than  ordinary  share  of  that 
suffering  which  falls  to  her  sex.  But  she  had  also  a  pecu 
liar  strength — the  strength  of  a  man  in  some  respects ;  and 


SHAME  AND  DEATH  —  THE  OATH.         429 

in  her  bosom  she  now  felt  the  sudden  glow  of  one  of  his 
fiercest  passions.  Revenge  might  be  in  her  power.  She 
might  redress  her  wrong  by  her  own  hand.  It  was  a 
weapon  of  death  which  she  grasped.  In  her  grasp  it  might 
be  made  a  weapon  of  power.  The  suggestion  seemed  to  be 
that  of  justice  only.  It  was  one  that  filled  her  whole  soul 
with  a  triumphant  and  a  wild  enthusiasm. 

"  I  shall  not  be  stricken  down  without  danger  to  mine 
enemy.  For  this  —  this,  at  least — strength  is  allotted  me. 
Let  him  tremble  !  In  his  place  of  seeming  security  let  him 
tremble !  I  shall  pursue  his  steps.  I  will  find  him  out. 
There  shall  be  a  day  of  retribution  !  Alfred  Stevens,  there 
is  a  power  within  me  which  tells  me  you  are  no  longer 
safe! 

"And  why  may  I  not  secure  this  justice — this  ven 
geance  ?  Why  ?  Because  lama  woman.  Ha !  We  shall 
see.  If  I  am  a  woman,  I  can  be  an  enemy — and  such  an 
enemy !  An  enemy  not  to  be  appeased,  not  to  be  over 
come.  War  always  with  my  foe — war  to  the  knife — war 
to  the  last !" 

Such  a  nature  as  that  of  Margaret  Cooper  needed  some 
sucli  object  to  give  it  the  passionate  employment  without 
which  it  must  recoil  upon  itself  and  end  either  in  suicide 
or  madness.  She  brooded  upon  this  new  thought.  She 
found  in  it  a  grateful  exercise.  From  the  moment  when 
she  conceived  the  idea  of  being  the  avenger  of  her  own 
wrong,  her  spirit  became  more  elastic — she  became  less 
sensible  to  the  possible  opinions  upon  her  condition  which 
might  be  entertained  by  others.  She  found  consolation, 
in  retreating  to  this  one  thought,  from  all  the  rest.  Of  the 
difficulties  in  the  way  of  her  design,  it  was  not  in  her  im 
petuous  character  to  think.  She  never  once  suspected  that 
the  name  of  Alfred  Stevens  had  been  an  assumed  one.  She 
never  once  asked  how  she  was  to  pursue  and  hunt  him  up. 
She  thought  of  a  male  disguise  for  herself,  it  is  true ;  but 
of  the  means  and  modes  of  travel — -in  what  direction  to  go, 


430  CHARLEMONT. 

and  after  what  plan  to  conduct  her  pursuit,  she  had  not  the 
most  distant  idea. 

She  addressed  herself  to  her  new  design,  however,  in 
one  respect,  with  amazing  perseverance.  It  diverted  her 
from  other  and  more  oppressive  thoughts.  Her  pistols 
she  carried  secretly  to  a  very  distant  wood,  where  she 
concealed  them  in  the  hollow  of  a  tree.  To  this  wood  she 
repaired  secretly  and  daily.  Here  she  selected  a  tree  as 
a  mark.  A  small  section  of  the  bark,  which  she  tore 
away,  at  a  given  height,  she  learned  to  regard  as  the  breast 
of  her  seducer.  This  was  the  object  of  her  aim.  With 
out  any  woman  fears,  she  began  her  practice  and  continued 
it,  day  by  day,  until,  as  we  are  told  by  one  of  the  chroni 
clers  of  her  melancholy  story,  "  she  could  place  a  ball  with 
an  accuracy,  which,  were  it  universally  equalled  by  modern 
duellists,  would  render  duelling  much  more  fatal  than  it 
commonly  is." 

In  secret  she  procured  gunpowder  and  lead,  by  arts  so 
ingenious  as  to  baffle  detection.  At  midnight  when  her 
mother  slept  she  moulded  her  bullets.  Well  might  the 
thoughts  and  feelings  which  possessed  her  mind,  while  en 
gaged  in  this  gloomy  labor,  have  endowed  every  bullet 
with  a  wizard  spell  to  make  it  do  its  bidding  truly.  Bitter, 
indeed,  were  the  hours  so  appropriated  ;  but  they  had  their 
consolations.  Dark  and  terrible  were  the  excited  moods 
in  which  she  retired  from  her  toils  to  that  slumber  which 
she  could  not  always  secure.  And  when  it  did  come,  what 
were  its  images!  The  tree,  the  mark,  the  weapon,  the 
deep,  dim  forest,  all  the  scenes  and  trials  of  the  day,  were 
renewed  in  her  sleep.  A  gloomy  wood  filled  her  eyes — 
a  victim  dabbled  in  blood  lay  before  her ;  and,  more  than 
once,  her  own  fearful  cry  of  vengeance  and  exultation 
awakened  her  from  those  dreams  of  sleep,  which  strength 
ened  her  in  the  terrible  pursuit  of  the  object  which  occa- 
Bioned  them. 

Such  thoughts  and  practices,  continued  with  religious 


SHAME  AND  DEATH  —  THE  OATH.          431 

pertinacity,  from  day  to  day,  necessarily  had  their  effect 
upon  her  appearance  as  well  as  her  character.  Her  beauty 
assumed  a  wilder  aspect.  Her  eye  shot  forth  a  supernat 
ural  fire.  She  never  smiled.  Her  mouth  was  rigid  and 
compressed  as  if  her  heart  was  busy  in  an  endless  conflict. 
Her  gloom,  thus  nurtured  by  solitude  and  the  continual 
presence  of  a  brooding  imagination  of  revenge,  darkened 
into  something  like  ferocity.  Her  utterance  became  brief 
and  quick — her  tones  sharp,  sudden,  and  piercing.  She 
had  but  one  thought  which  never  seemed  to  desert  her,  yet 
of  this  thought  no  ear  ever  had  cognizance.  It  was  of  the 
time  when  she  should  exercise  the  skill  which  she  had  now 
acquired  upon  that  destroyer  of  herself,  whom  she  now  felt 
herself  destined  to  destroy. 

Of  course  we  are  describing  a  madness — one  of  those 
peculiar  forms  of  the  disease  which  seems  to  have  its  origin 
in  natural  and  justifiable  suggestions  of  reason.  Not  the 
less  a  madness  for  all  that. 

Succeeding  in  her  practice  at  one  distance,  Margaret 
Cooper  changed  it.  From  one  point  to  another  she  con 
stantly  varied  her  practice,  until  her  aim  grew  certain  at 
almost  any  distance  within  the  ordinary  influence  of  the 
weapon.  To  strike  her  mark  at  thirty  feet  became,  in  a 
little  while,  quite  as  easy  as  to  do  so  at  five ;  and,  secure 
now  of  her  weapon,  her  next  object — though  there  was  no 
cessation  of  her  practice — was  how  to  seek  and  where  to 
find  the  victim. 

In  this  new  object  she  meditated  to  disguise  herself  in 
the  apparel  of  a  man.  She  actually  commenced  the  making 
up  of  the  several  garments  of  one.  This  was  also  the 
secret  labor  of  the  midnight  hour,  when  her  feeble-minded 
mother  slept.  She  began  to  feel  some  of  the  difficulties 
lying  in  the  way  of  this  pursuit,  and  her  mind  grew  troubled 
to  consider  them,  without  however,  relaxing  in  its  determi 
nation.  That  seemed  a  settled  matter. 

While  she  brooded  over  this  new  feature  of  her  purpose 


432  CHARLEMONT. 

—  as  if  fortunately  to  arrest  the  mad  design — her  mother 
fell  seriously  sick,  and  was  for  some  time  in  danger.  The 
duty  of  attending  upon  her,  put  a  temporary  stop  to  her 
thoughts  and  exercises ;  though  without  having  the  effect 
of  expelling  them  from  her  mind. 

But  another  event,  upon  her  mother's  recovery,  tended 
to  produce  a  considerable  alteration  in  her  thoughts.  A 
new  care  filled  her  heart  and  rendered  her  a  different  being, 
in  several  respects.  She  was  soon  to  become  a  mother. 
The  sickness  of  soul  which  oppressed  her  under  this  con 
viction,  gave  a  new  direction  to  her  mood  without  lessen 
ing  its  bitterness  ;  and,  in  proportion  as  she  found  her  ven 
geance  delayed,  so  was  the  gratification  which  it  promised, 
a  heightened  desire  in  her  mind. 

For  the  humiliating  and  trying  event  which  was  at  hand, 
Margaret  Cooper  prepared  with  a  degree  of  silent  firmness 
which  denoted  quite  as  strongly  the  resignation  of  despair 
as  any  other  feeling. 

The  child  is  born. 

Margaret  Cooper  has  at  length  become  a  mother.  She 
has  suffered  the  agony,  without  being  able  to  feel  the  com 
pensating  pride  and  pleasure  of  one.  It  was  the  witness 
of  her  shame — could  she  receive  it  with  any  assurances  of 
love  ?  It  is  doubtful  if  she  did. 

For  some  time  after  its  birth,  the  hapless  woman  seemed 
to  be  unconscious,  or  half-conscious  only,  of  her  charge. 
A  stupor  weighed  upon  her  senses.  When  she  did  awaken, 
and  her  eyes  fell  upon  the  face  and  form  of  the  infant  with 
looks  of  recognition,  one  long,  long  piercing  shriek  burst 
from  her  lips.  She  closed  her  eyes — she  turned  away  from 
the  little  unoffending,  yet  offensive  object  with  a  feeling  of 
horror. 

Its  features  were  those  of  Alfred  Stevens.  The  likeness 
was  indelible ;  and  this  identity  drew  upon  the  child  a 
share  of  that  loathing  hatred  with  which  she  now  remem 
bered  the  guilty  father. 


SHAME  AND  DEATH  —  THE  OATH.         433 

It  may  very  well  be  supposed  that  the  innocent  babe 
suffered  under  these  circumstances.  The  milk  which  it 
drew  from  the  mother's  breast,  was  the  milk  of  bitterness, 
and  it  did  not  thrive.  It  imbibed  gall  instead  of  nutriment. 
Day  after  day  it  pined  in  hopeless  misery ;  and  ihough 
the  wretched  mother  strove  to  supply  its  wants  and  soothe 
its  little  sorrows,  with  a  gradually  increasing  interest  which 
overcame  her  first  loathing,  there  was  yet  that  want  of 
sweetest  sympathy  which  nothing  merely  physical  could 
well  supply. 

Debility  was  succeeded  by  disease — fever  preyed  upon  its 
little  frame,  which  was  now  reduced  to  a  skeleton.  One 
short  month  only  had  elapsed  from  its  birth,  and  it  lay, 
in  the  silence  of  exhaustion  upon  the  arm  of  its  mother. 
Its  eyes,  whence  the  flickering  light  was  escaping  fast, 
looked  up  into  hers,  as  she  fancied,  with  an  expression  of 
reproach.  She  felt,  on  the  instant,  the  pang  of  the  mater 
nal  conscience.  She  forgot  the  unworthy  father,  as  she 
thought  of  the  neglectful  mother.  She  bent  down,  and, 
for  the  first  time,  imprinted  on  its  little  lips  the  maternal 
kiss. 

A  smile  seemed  to  glimmer  on  its  tiny  features ;  and, 
from  that  moment,  Margaret  Cooper  resolved  to  forget  her 
injuries,  for  the  time,  at  least,  in  the  consideration  of  her 
proper  duties.  But  her  resolution  came  too  late.  Even 
while  her  nipple  was  within  its  boneless  gums,  a  change 
came  over  the  innocent.  She  did  not  heed  it.  Her  eyes 
and  thoughts  were  elsewhere ;  and  thus  she  mused,  gazing 
vacantly  upon  the  wall  of  her  chamber  until  her  mother 
entered  the  room.  Mrs.  Cooper  gave  but  a  single  glance 
at  the  infant  when  she  saw  that  its  little  cares  were  over. 

"  Oh,  Margaret !"  she  exclaimed,  "  the  child  is  dead." 

The  mother  looked  down  with  a  start  and  shudder.  A 
big  tear  fell  from  her  eyes  upon  the  cold  cheek  of  the  inno 
cent.  She  released  it  to  her  mother,  turned  her  face  upon 
the  couch,  and  uttered  her  thanks  to  Heaven  that  had  so 

19 


434  CHARLEMONT. 

decreed  it  —  that  had  left  her  again  free  for  that  darker 
purpose  which  had  so  long  filled  her  mind. 

"Better  so,"  she  murmured  to  her  mother.  "It  is  at 
peace.  It  will  neither  know  its  own  nor  its  mother's  griefs. 
It  is  free  from  that  shame  for  which  I  must  live !" 

•"  Come  now,  Margaret,  no  more  of  that/'  said  the  mother 
sharply.  "  There's  no  need  of  shame.  There  are  other 
things  to  live  for  besides  shame." 

"  There  are — there  are  !"  exclaimed  the  daughter,  with 
spasmodic  energy.  "  Were  there  not,  I  should,  indeed,  be 
desperate." 

"  To  be  sure  you  would,  my  child.  You  have  a  great 
deal  to  live  for  yet ;  and  let  a  little  time  blow  over,  and 
when  everything's  forgotten,  you  will  get  as  good  a  hus 
band  as  any  girl  in  the  country." 

"  For  Heaven's  sake,  mother,  none  of  this  ?" 

"  But  why  not !  Though  you  are  looking  a  little  bad  just 
now — quite  pale  and  broken — yet  it's  only  because  you 
have  been  so  ill ;  and  this  nursing  of  babies,  and  having 
'cm  too,  is  a  sort  of  business  to  make  any  young  woman 
look  bad ;  but  in  spite  of  all,  there's  not  a  girl  in  the  vil 
lage,  no  matter  how  fresh  she  may  be  looking,  that  can  hold 
a  candle  to  you." 

"  For  mercy,  mother  ! — 

"  Let  me  speak,  I  tell  you  !  Don't  I  know  ?  You're 
young,  and  you'll  get  over  it.  You  will  get  all  your  beauty 
and  good  looks  back,  now  that  the  baby's  out  of  the  way, 
and  there's  no  more  nursing  to  be  done.  And  what  with 
your  beauty  and  your  talents,  Margaret " 

"  Peace  !  mother  !  Peace — peace !  You  will  drive  me 
to  madness  if  you  continue  to  speak  thus." 

"  Well,  I'm  sure  there's  no  knowing  what  to  say  to  please 
you.  I'm  sure,  I  only  want  to  cheer  you  up,  and  to  con 
vince  you  that  things  are  not  so  bad  as  you  think  them  now. 
The  cloud  will  blow  over  soon,  and  everything  will  be  for 
gotten,  and  then,  you  see " 


SHAME  AND  DEATH — THE  OATH.          435 

The  girl  waved  her  hand  impatiently. 
.      "Death  — death!"    she   exclaimed.      "Oh!    child   of 
shame,  and  bitterness,  and  wrath  !"  she  murmured,  kneel 
ing  down  beside  the  infant,  "  thou  art  the  witness  that  I 

have  no  future  but  storm,  and  cloud,  and  wrath,  and 

Vengeance !" 

The  last  word  was  inaudible  to  her  mother's  ears. 

"  It  is  an  oath  !"  she  cried  ;  "  an  oath  !"  And  her  hands 
were  uplifted  in  solemn  adjuration. 

"  Come — come,  Margaret!  none  of  this  swearing.  You 
frighten  me  witli  your  swearing.  There's  nothing  that  you 
need  to  swear  about !  "What's  done  can't  be  helped  now, 
by  taking  it  so  seriously.  You  must  only  be  patient,  and 
give  yourself  time.  Time's  the  word  for  us  now ;  after  a 
little  while  you'll  see  the  sky  become  brighter.  It's  a  bad 
business,  it's  true  ;  but  it  needn't  break  a  body's  heart. 
How  many  young  girls  I've  known  in  my  time,  that's  been 
in  the  same  fix.  There  was  Janet  Bonner,  and  Emma 
Loring,  and  Mary  Peters — I  knew  'em  all,  very  well. 
Well,  they  all  made  a  slip  once  in  their  lives,  and  they  never 
broke  their  hearts  about  it,  and  didn't  look  very  pale  and 
sad  in  the  face  either ;  but  they  just  kept  quiet  and  behaved 
decent  for  awhile,  and  every  one  of  'em  got  good  husbands. 
Janet  Bonner,  she  married  Dick  Pyatt,  who  came  from 
Massachusetts,  and  kept  the  school  down  by  Clayton's 
Meadow ;  Emma  Loring  married  a  baptist-preacher  from 
Virginia,  named  Stokes.  I  never  saw  him  to  know  him ; 
and  as  for  Mary  Peters,  there  never  was  a  girl  that  had  a 
slip  that  was  ever  so  fortunate,  for  she's  been  married  no 
less  than  three  times  since,  and  as  she's  a  widow  again, 
there's  no  telling  what  may  happen  to  her  yet.  So  don't 
you  be  so  downcast.  You're  chance  is  pretty  nigh  as  good 
as  ever,  if  you  will  only  hold  up  your  head,  and  put  the 
best  face  on  it." 

"  Oh  !  torture — torture  !  Mother,  will  you  not  be  silent  ? 


436  CHARLEMONT. 

Let  the  dead  speak  to  me  only.  I  would  hear  but  the  voice 
of  this  one  witness " 

And  she  communed  only  with  the  dead  infant,  sitting  or 
kneeling  beside  it.  But  the  communion  was  not  one  of 
contrition  or  tears — not  of  humility  and  repentance— not 
of  self-reproach  and  a  broken  spirit.  Pride  and  other  pas 
sions  had  summoned  up  deities  and  angels  of  terror  and 
of  crime,  before  the  eyes  and  thoughts  of  the  wretched 
mourner,  and  the  demon  who  had  watched  with  her  and 
waited  on  her,  and  had  haunted  her  with  taunt  and  bitter 
mockeries,  night  and  day,  was  again  busy  with  terrible  sug 
gestions,  which  gradually  grew  to  be  divine  laws  to  her 
diseased  imagination. 

"  Yes  !"  she  exclaimed  unconsciously. 

"  I  hear !  I  obey  !  Yet  speak  again.  Repeat  the  lesson. 
I  must  learn  it  every  syllable,  so  that  I  shall  not  mistake 
—  so  that  I  can  not  fail !" 

"  Who  are  you  talking  to,  Margaret  ?"  asked  the  mother 
anxiously. 

"  Do  you  not  see  them,  where  they  go  ?  There — through 
the  doors  ;  the  open  windows — wrapped  in  shadows,  with 
great  wings  at  their  shoulders,  each  carrying  a  dart  in  his 
bony  grasp." 

"  Lord,  have  mercy  !  She's  losing  her  senses  again  !" 
and  the  mother  was  about  to  rush  from  the  apartment  to 
seek  assistance  ;  but  with  the  action,  the  daughter  suddenly 
arose,  wearing  a  look  of  singular  calmness,  and  motioning 
to  the  child,  she  said  :  — 

"  Will  you  not  dress  it  for  the  grave  ?" 

"  I'm  going  about  it  now.  The  poor  lovely  little  crea 
ture.  The  innocent  little  blossom.  We  must  put  it  in 
white,  Margaret — virgin  white — and  put  white  flowers  in 
its  little  hands  and  on  its  breast,  and  under  its  head.  Oh ! 
it  will  look  so  sweet  in  its  little  coffin !" 

"  God  !  I  should  go  mad  with  all  this  !"  exclaimed  the 
daughter,  "  were  it  not  for  that  work  which  is  before  me ! 


SHAME  AND  DEATH  —  THE  OATH.          437 

I  must  be  calm  for  that — calm  and  stern  !  I  must  not 
hear — I  must  not  think — not  feel — lest  I  forget  myself, 
and  the  deed  which  I  have  to  do.  That  oath — that  oath! 
It  is  sworn  !  It  is  registered  in  heaven,  by  the  fatal  angels 
of  remorse,  and  wrath,  and  vengeance !" 

And  again,  a  whisper  at  her  ears  repeated :  — 
"  For  this,  Margaret,  and  for  this  only,  must  thou  live  ?" 
"  I  must !     I  will !"  she  muttered,  as  it  were  in  reply, 
and  her  eye  glared  upon  the  opened  door,  as  she  heard  a 
voice  and  footsteps  without ;  and  the  thought  smote  her :  — 
"  Should  it  be  now  !     Come  for  the  sacrifice  !     Ha  !" 


488  CHARLEMONT. 


CHAPTER    XXXVIII. 

THE  PALL  UPON  THE  COFFIN. 

THE  noise  which  arrested  the  attention  of  Margaret 
Cooper,  and  kindled  her  features  into  an  expression  of  wild 
and  fiery  ferocity,  was  of  innocent  origin.  The  widow 
Thackeray  was  the  intruder.  Her  kindness,  sympathy, 
and  unweared  attentions,  so  utterly  in  conflict  with  the  esti 
mates  hitherto  made  of  her  heart  and  character,  by  Mrs. 
Cooper,  had,  in  some  degree,  disarmed  the  censures  of  that 
excellent  mother,  if  they  had  not  wholly  changed  her  senti 
ments.  She  professed  to  be  very  grateful  to  Thackeray's 
attentions,  and,  without  making  any  profession,  Margaret 
certainly  showed  her  that  she  felt  them.  She  now  only 
pointed  the  widow  to  the  corpse  of  the  child,  in  that  one 
action  telling  to  the  other  all  that  was  yet  unknown.  Then 
she  seated  herself  composedly,  folded  her  hands,  and,  be 
side  the  corpse,  forgot  its  presence,  forgot  the  presence  of 
all — heard  no  voice,  save  that  of  the  assiduous  demon 
whom  nothing  could  expel  from  her  companionship. 

"  Poor  little  thing !"  murmured  the  widow  Thackeray, 
as  she  proceeded  to  assist  Mrs.  Cooper  in  decking  it  for  the 
grave. 

The  duty  was  finally  done.  Its  burial  was  appointed  for 
the  morrow. 

A  village  funeral  is  necessarily  an  event  of  some  impor 
tance.  The  lack  of  excitements  in  small  communities,  in- 


THE  PALL  UPON  THE  COFFIN.  439 

vests  even  sorrow  and  grief  and  death  with  a  peculiar  inter 
est  in  the  eyes  of  curiosity.  On  the  present  occasion,  all 
the  villagers  attended.  The  funeral  itself  might  have  suf 
ficed  to  collect  them  with  few  exceptions ;  but  now  there 
was  a  more  eager  influence  still,  working  upon  the  gos- 
sippy  moods  of  the  population.  To  see  Margaret  Cooper 
in  her  affliction  —  to  see  that  haughty  spirit  humbled  and 
made  ashamed — was,  we  fear,  a  motive,  in  the  minds  of 
many,  much  stronger  than  the  ostensible  occasion  might 
have  awakened.  Had  Margaret  been  a  fashionable  woman, 
in  a  great  city,  she  might  have  disappointed  the  vulgar  de 
sire,  by  keeping  to  her  chamber.  Nay,  even  according  to 
the  free-and-easy  standards  prevailing  at  Charlemont,  she 
might  have  done  the  same  thing,  and  incurred  no  additional 
scandal. 

It  was,  indeed,  to  the  surprise  of  a  great  many,  that  she 
made  her  appearance.  It  was  still  more  a  matter  of  sur 
prise — nay,  pious  and  virgin  horror — that  she  seemed  to 
betray  neither  grief  nor  shame,  surrounded  as  she  was  by 
all  whom  she  knew,  and  all,  in  particular,  whom,  in  the 
day  of  her  pride,  she  had  kept  at  a  distance. 

"  What  a  brazen  creature !"  whispered  Miss  Jemima 
Parkinson,  an  interesting  spinster  of  thirty-six,  to  Miss 
Ellen  Broadhurst,  who  was  only  thirty-four ;  and  Miss  El 
len  whispered  back,  in  reply :  — 

"  She  hasn't  the  slightest  bit  of  shame  !" 

Interesting  virgins !  they  had  come  to  gloat  over  the 
spectacle  of  shame.  To  behold  the  agonizing  sense  of  de 
gradation  declare  itself  under  the  finger-pointing  scorn  of 
those  who,  perhaps,  were  only  innocent  from  necessity,  and 
virtuous  because  of  the  lack  of  the  necessary  attractions  in 
the  eyes  of  lust. 

But  Margaret  Cooper  seemed  quite  as  insensible  to  their 
presence  as  to  their  scorn  and  her  own  shame.  She,  in 
truth,  saw  none  of  them.  She  heard  not  their  voices.  She 
conjectured  none  of  their  comments.  She  had  anticipated 


440  CHARLEMONT. 

all  of  them ;  and  having,  in  consequence,  reached  a  point 
of  intensity  in  her  agony  which  could  bear  no  addition,  she 
had  been  relieved  only  by  a  still  more  intense  passion,  by 
which  the  enfeebling  one,  of  mere  society,  stood  rebuked 
and  almost  forgotten. 

They  little  dreamed  the  terrible  thoughts  which  were 
working,  beneath  that  stolid  face,  in  that  always  eager- 
working  brain.  They  never  fancied  what  a  terrible  demon 
now  occupied  that  fiery  heart  which  they  supposed  was 
wholly  surrendered  to  the  consciousness  of  shame.  Could 
they  have  heard  that  voice  of  the  fiend  whispering  in  her 
ears,  while  they  whispered  to  one  another — heard  his  ter 
rible  exhortations — heard  her  no  less  terrible  replies — 
they  would  have  shrunk  away  in  horror,  and  felt  fear  rather 
than  exultation. 

Margaret  Cooper  was  insensible  to  all  that  they  could 
say  or  do.  She  knew  them  well — knew  what  they  would 
say,  and  feel,  and  do  ;  but  the  very  extremity  of  her  suffer 
ing  had  placed  it  out  of  their  power  any  longer  to  mortify 
or  shame. 

Some  few  of  the  villagers  remained  away.  Ned  Hinkley 
and  his  widowed  sister  were  absent  from  the  house,  though 
they  occupied  obscure  places  in  the  church  when  the  fu 
neral-procession  took  place.  An  honorable  pity  kept  them 
from  meeting  the  eyes  of  the  poor  shame-stricken  but  not 
shame-showing  woman. 

And  Margaret  followed  the  little  corpse  to  its  quiet  nook 
in  the  village  graveyard.  In  that  simple  region  the  pro 
cession  was  wholly  on  foot ;  and  she  walked  behind  the 
coffin  as  firmly  as  if  she  knew  not  what  it  held.  There 
was  a  single  shiver  that  passed  over  her  frame,  as  the 
heavy  clods  fell  upon  the  coffin-lid  —  but  that  was  all ;  and 
when  her  mother  and  the  widow  Thackeray  took  each  of 
them  one  of  her  arms,  and  led  her  away  from  the  grave, 
and  home,  she  went  quietly,  calmly,  it  would  seem,  and 
with  as  firm  a  step  as  ever ! 


THE  PALL  UPON  THE  COFFIN.  441 

"  She  has  not  a  bit  of  feeling !"  said  Miss  Jemima  to  Miss 
Ellen. 

"  That's  always  the  case  with  your  very  smart  women," 
was  the  reply.  "  It's  all  head  with  'em ;  there's  no  heart. 
They  can  talk  fine  things  about  death,  and  sorrow,  and 
affliction,  but  it's  talk  only.  They  don't  feel  what  they 
say." 

Ned  Hinkley  had  a  juster  notion  of  the  state  of  the  poor 
victim — of  her  failings  and  her  sensibilities,  her  equal 
strength  and  weakness. 

"  Now,"  said  he  to  his  sister,  "  there's  a  burning  volcano 
in  that  woman's  heart,  that  will  tear  her  spme  day  to  pieces. 
For  all  that  coldness,  and  calmness,  and  stateliness,  her 
brain  is  on  fire,  and  her  heart  ready  for  a  convulsion.  Her 
thoughts  now,  if  she  thinks  at  all,  are  all  desperate.  She's 
going  through  a  very  hell  upon  earth !  When  you  think 
of  her  pride — and  she's  just  as  proud  now  as  the  devil 
himself — her  misfortune  hasn't  let  her  down — only  made 
her  more  fierce — you  wonder  that  she  lets  herself  be  seen ; 
you  wonder  that  she  lives  at  all.  I  only  wonder  that  she 
hasn't  thrown  herself  from  the  rocks  and  into  the  lake. 
She'll  do  it  yet,  I'm  a-thinking. 

"  And  just  so  she  always  was.  I  knew  her  long  ago. 
She  once  told  me  she  was  afraid  of  nothing — would  do  as 
she  pleased — she  could -dare  anything!  From  that  mo 
ment  I  saw  she  wasn't  the  girl  for  Bill  Hinkley.  I  told 
him  so,  but  he  was  so  crazy  after  her,  he'd  hear  to  nothing. 
A  woman — a  young  woman — a  mere  girl  of  fifteen — boast 
ing  that  she  can  dare  and  do  things  that  would  set  any 
woman  in  a  shiver !  I  tell  you  what,  sis,  the  woman  that's 
bolder  than  her  sex  is  always  in  danger  of  falling  from  the 
rocks.  She  gets  such  a  conceit  of  her  mind,  that  the  devil 
is  always  welcome.  Her  heart,  after  that,  stands  no  sort 
of  chance ! 

"Protect  me,  say  I,  from 'all  that  class  of  women  that 
pride  themselves  on  their  strongmindedness !  They  get 

19* 


442  CHAKLEMONT. 

insolent  upon  it.  They  think  that  mind  can  do  everything. 
They're  so  vain,  that  they  never  can  see  the  danger,  even 
when  it's  yawning  at  their  feet.  A  woman's  never  safe  un 
less  she's  scary  of  herself,  and  mistrusts  herself,  and  never 
lets  her  thoughts  and  fancies  get  from  under  a  tight  rein 
of  prudence.  For,  after  all,  the  passions  will  have  their 
way  some  day,  and  then  what's  the  use  of  the  mind  ?  I 
tell  you,  sis,  that  the  passions  are  born  deaf — they  never 
listen  to  any  argument. 

"  But  I'm  sorry  for  her — God  knows  I'm  sorry  for  her ! 
I'd  give  all  I'm  worth  to  have  a  fair  shot  or  clip  at  that 
rascal  Stevens.  Brother  Stevens !  Ain't  it  monstrous,  now, 
that  a  sheep's  cover  should  be  all  that's  sufficient  to  give 
the  wolf  freedom  in  the  flock?  —  that  you've  only  to  say, 
4  This  is  a  brother — a  man  of  God'  —  and  no  proof  is  asked ! 
nobody  questions !  The  blind,  beastly,  bigoted,  blathering 
blockheads !  I  feel  very  much  like  setting  off  straight,  and 
licking  John  Hinkley,  though  he's  my  own  uncle,  within  an 
inch  of  his  life!  He  and  John  Cross  —  the  old  fools  who 
are  so  eager  to  impose  their  notions  of  religion  upon  every 
body,  that  anybody  may  impose  upon  them — they  two  have 
destroyed  this  poor  young  creature.  It's  at  their  door,  in 
part,  this  crime,  and  this  ruin !  I  feel  it  in  my  heart  to 
lick  'em  both  out  of  their  breeches  ! 

"  Yet,  as  I'm  a  living  sinner,. they'll  stand  up  in  the  con 
gregation,  and  exhort  about  this  poor  girl's  misfortune,  just 
as  if  they  were  not  to  blame  at  all  who  brought  the  wolf 
into  the  farmyard  !  They'll  talk  about  her  sins,  and  not  a 
word,  to  themselves  or  anybody  else,  about  their  own  stu 
pidities  !  I  feel  it  in  my  heart  to  lather  both  of  them  right 
away!" 

The  sister  said  little,  and  sorrowfully  walked  on  in  si 
lence  homeward,  listening  to  the  fierce  denunciations  of 
Ned  Hinkley.  Ned  was  affected,  or,  rather,  he  showed  his 
sympathies,  in  a  manner  entirely  his  own.  He  was  so  much 
for  fight,  that  he  totally  forgot  his  fiddle  that  night,  and 


THE  PALL  UPON  THE  COFFIN.  443 

amused  himself  by  putting  his  two  "  barking-pups"  in  order 
— getting  them  ready,  as  he  said,  "in  case  he  ever  should 
get  a  crack  at  Brother  Stevens !" 

The  cares  of  the  child's  burial  over,  and  the  crowd  dis 
persed,  the  cottage  of  the  widow  Cooper  was  once  more 
abandoned  to  the  cheeiiessness  and  wo  within.  Very  dis 
mal  was  the  night  of  that  day  to  the  two,  the  foolish  mother 
and  wretched  daughter,  as  they  sat  brooding  together,  in 
deep  silence,  by  the  light  of  a  feeble  candle.  The  mother 
rocked  a  while  in  her  easy-chair.  The  daughter,  hands 
clasped  in  her  lap,  sat  watching  the  candlelight  in  almost 
idiotic  vacancy  of  gaze.  At  length  she  stood  up  and  spoke 
— slowly,  deliberately,  and  apparently  in  as  calm  a  mood 
as  she  had  ever  felt  in  all  her  life : — 

"  We  must  leave  this  place,  mother.  "We  must  go  hence 
— to-morrow  if  we  can." 

"  Go  ? — leave  this  place  ?  I  want  to  know  why !  I'm 
sure  we're  very  comfortable  here.  I  can't  be  going  just 
when  you  please,  and  leaving  all  my  company  and  friends." 

"Friends!" 

"Yes,  friends!  There's  the  widow  Thackeray  —  and 
there's—" 

"  And  how  long  is  it  since  Mrs.  Thackeray  was  such  a 
dear  friend,  mother  ?"  asked  the  daughter,  with  ill-sup 
pressed  scorn. 

"  No  matter  how  long :  she's  a  good  friend  now.  She's 
not  so  foolish  as  she  used  to  be.  She's  grown  good  ;  she's 
got  religion  ;  and  I  don't  consider  what  she  was.  No!  — 
I'm  willing — " 

"  Pshaw,  mother !  tell  me  nothing  of  your  friendships. 
You'll  find,  wherever  you  go,  as  many  friends  as  you  please, 
valued  quite  as  much  as  Mrs.  Thackeray." 

"  Well,  I  do  say,  Margaret,  it's  very  ungrateful  of  you 
to  speak  so  disrespectfully  of  Mrs.  Thackeray,  after  all  her 
kindness  and  attention." 


444  CHARLEMONT. 

"I  do  not  speak  disrespectfully  of  Mrs.  Thackeray.  I 
never  did  speak  ill  of  her,  even  when  it  was  your  favorite 
practice  to  do  so.  I  only  speak  of  your  newly-acquired 
appreciation  of  her.  But  this  is  nothing  to  the  purpose. 
I  repeat,  mother,  we  can  not  remain  here.  I  will  depart, 
whether  you  resolve  to  go  or  not.  I  can  not,  I  will  not, 
exist  another  week  in  Charlemont." 

"  And  where  would  you  go  ?" 

"  Back  —  back  to  that  old  farm,  from  which  you  brought 
me  in  evil  hour !  It  is  poor,  obscure,  profitless,  unsought, 
unseen :  it  will  give  me  a  shelter — it  may  bring  me  peace. 
I  must  have  solitude  for  a  season  ;  I  must  sleep  for  months." 

"  Sleep  for  months  !    La  me,  child,  what  a  notion's  that !" 

"  No  matter — thither  let  us  go.  I  seem  to  see  it,  stretch 
ing  out  its  hands,  and  imploring  us  to  come." 

"  Bless  me,  Margaret !  a  farm  stretching  out  its  hands ! 
Why,  you're  in  a  dream !" 

"  Don't  wake  me,  then  !  Better  I  should  so  dream ! 
Thither  I  go.  It  is  fortunate  that  you  have  not  been  able 
to  sell  it.  It  is  a  mercy  that  it  still  remains  to  us.  It  was 
my  childhood's  home.  Would  it  could  again  receive  me  as 
a  child !  It  will  cover  my  head  for  a  while,  at  least,  and 
that  is  something.  We  must  leave  this  place.  Here  every 
thing  offends  me  —  every  spot,  every  face,  every  look,  every 
gesture." 

"  It's  impossible,  Margaret ! — " 

"  What !  you  suppose  it  an  honorable  distinction,  do  you, 
when  the  folks  here  point  to  your  daughter,  and  say — ha! 
ha !  —  listen  what  they  say !  It  is  the  language  of  compli 
ment  !  They  are  doing  me  honor,  with  tongue  and  finger ! 
Repeat,  mother ;  tell  me  what  they  say — for  it  evidently 
gives  you  great  pleasure." 

"  0  Margaret !  Margaret ! — " 

"You  understand,  do  you?  Well,  then,  we  go.  We 
can  not  depart  too  soon.  If  I  stay  here,  I  madden !  And  I 
must  not  madden.  I  have  something  which  needs  be  done 


THE  PALL  UPON  THE  COFFIN.          445 

— which  must  be  done.     It  is  an  oath !  an  oath  in  heaven ! 
The  child  was  a  witness.     She  heard  all — every  syllable !" 

"  What  all  ?  what  did  you  hear  ?" 

"  No  matter !  I'm  sworn  to  be  secret.  But  you  shall 
hear  in  time.  We  have  no  time  for  it  now.  It  is  a  very 
long  story.  And  we  must  now  be  packing.  Yes,  we  must 
go.  /must  go,  at  least.  Shall  I  go  alone  ?" 

" But  you  will  not  leave  your  mother,  Margaret!" 

"Father  and  mother — all  will  I  leave,  in  obedience  to 
that  oath.  Believe  me  or  not,  mother — go  with  me  or  not 
— still  I  go.  Perhaps  it  is  better  that  I  should  go  alone." 

The  strong  will  naturally  swayed  the  feebler,  as  it  had 
ever  done  before.  The  mother  submitted  to  an  arrangement 
which  she  had  not  the  resolution  to  oppose.  A  few  days 
were  devoted  to  necessary  arrangements,  and  then  they  left 
Charlemont  for  ever.  Margaret  Cooper  looked  not  once 
behind  them  as  they  traversed  the  lonely  hills  looking  down 
upon  the  village — those  very  hills  from  which,  at  the  open 
ing  of  this  story,  the  treacherous  Alfred  Stevens  and  his 
simple  uncle  beheld  the  lovely  little  settlement.  She  rec 
ognised  the  very  spot,  as  they  drove  over  it,  where  Stevens 
first  encountered  her,  and  the  busy  demon  at  her  ears  whis 
pered  : — 

"  It  was  here !     You  remember !" 

And  she  clinched  her  teeth  firmly  together,  even  though 
she  shuddered  at  her  memories ;  and  she  renewed  her  oath 
to  the  demon,  who,  thereupon,  kept  her  company  the  rest  of 
the  journey,  till  she  reached  the  ancient  and  obscure  farm 
stead  in  which  she  was  born. 

"  She  retired,"  says  the  rude  chronicle  from  which  we 
have  borrowed  many  of  the  materials  for  this  sombre  his 
tory,  "  to  a  romantic  little  farm  in ,  there  to  spend  in 

seclusion,  with  her  aged  mother  and  a  few  servants,  the 
remainder  of  her  days." 

Our  simple  chronicler  takes  too  much  for  granted.  Mar 
garet  Cooper  retired  with  no  such  purpose.  She  had  pur- 


446  CHARLEMONT. 

poses  entirely  at  conflict  with  any  idea  of  repose  or  quiet. 
She  thought  nothing  of  the  remainder  of  her  days.  Her  moth 
er  was  not  so  aged  but  that  she  could  still  think,  six  months 
afterward,  of  the  reported  marriage  of  the  widow  Thack 
eray  with  repining,  and  with  the  feeling  of  one  who  thinks 
that  she  has  suffered  neglect  and  injustice  at  the  hands  of 
the  world.  Touching  the  romance  of  the  ancient  farmstead, 
we  are  more  modestly  content  to  describe  it  as  sterile,  lone 
ly,  and  unattractive  ;  its  obscurity  offering,  for  the  present, 
its  chief  attractions  to  our  desolate  heroine,  and  the  true 
occasion  for  that  deep  disgust  with  which  her  amiable 
mother  beheld  it. 

Our  chronicle  of  Charlemont  is  ended.  We  have  no 
further  object  or  interest  within  its  precincts.  William 
Hinkley  is  gone,  no  one  knows  whither,  followed  by  his 
adopted  father,  the  retired  lawyer,  whose  sensibilities  were 
fatal  to  his  success.  It  was  not  long  before  Ned  Hinkley 
and  his  widowed  sister  found  it  their  policy  to  depart  also, 
seeking  superior  objects  in  another  county  ;  and  at  this  mo 
ment  Charlemont  is  an  abandoned  and  deserted  region. 
It  seemed  to  decline  from  the  moment  when  the  cruel  catas 
trophe  occurred  which  precipitated  Margaret  Cooper  from 
her  pride  of  place.  Beautiful  as  the  village  appeared  at 
the  opening  of  our  legend,  it  was  doomed  to  as  rapid  a  decay 
as  growth.  "  Something  ails  it  now — the  spot  is  cursed  I" 

But  our  history  does  not  finally  conclude  with  the  fate 
of  Charlemont.  That  chronicle  is  required  now  to  give 
place  to  another,  in  which  we  propose  to  take  up  the  sun 
dered  clues,  and  reunite  them  in  a  fresh  progress.  We 
shall  meet  some  of  the  old  parties  once  more,  in  new  situa 
tions.  We  shall  again  meet  with  Margaret  Cooper,  in  a 
new  guise,  under  other  aspects,  but  still  accompanied  by 
her  demon — still  inspired  by  her  secret  oath — still  glow 
ing  with  all  the  terrible  memories  of  the  past — still  labor- 


THE  PALL  UPON  THE  COFFIN.  447 

ing  with  unhallowed  pride ;  and  still  destined  for  a  dark 
catastrophe.  Our  scene,  however,  lies  in  another  region,  to 
which  the  reader,  who  has  thus  far  kept  pace  with  our  prog 
ress,  is  entreated  still  to  accompany  us.  The  chronicle  of 
"  CHARLEMONT"  will  find  its  fitting  sequel  in  that  of  "  BEAU- 
CHAMPE"  —  known  proverbially  as  "THE  KENTUCKY  TRA- 


END     OF     CHARLEMONT. 


REDFIELD'S  PUBLICATIONS. — POETRY  AND  THE  DRAMA.      1 


POETRY   AND   THE  DRAMA. 

The  Works  of  Shakespeare,  reprinted  from  the  newly- 
discovered  copy  of  the  Folio  of  1632,  in  the  possession  of  J.  PAYNB 
COLLIER,  with  numerous  Illustrations.  One  vol.  Imperial  8vo.  Cloth, 
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Same  as  above,  cheap  edition,  cloth,  $3  00 ;  sheep,  $3  50 ;  imitation  morocco, 
full  gilt,  $4  00. 

The  Works  of  Shakespeare,  same  as  above.     Uniform  in 

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half  calf  or  morocco,  plain,  $10  00;  half  calf  or  morocco,  extra,  $12  00. 

IVotes   and   Emendations    of  Shakespeare.      Notes  and 

Emendations  to  the  Text  of  Shakespeare's  Plays,  from  the  Early  Manu 
script  Corrections  in  a  copy  of  the  folio  of  1632,  in  the  possession  of  JOHN 
PAYNE  COLLIER,  E.  S.  A.  Third  edition,  with  a  fac-simile  of  the  Manu 
script  Corrections.  1  vol.,  12mo.,  cloth.  Price  $1  50. 

Lilian,  and  other  Poems.  By  WINTHROP  MACKWOKTH 
PRAED.  Now  first  collected.  1  vol.,  12mo.  Price  $1  00. 

Lays  of  the  Scottish  Cavaliers.     By  WILLIAM  E.  AYTOUN, 

Professor  of  Literature  and  Belles-Lettres  in  the  University  of  Edinburgh, 
and  Editor  of  Blackwood's  Magazine.  1  vol.,  12mo,  cloth.  Price  $1  00. 

Firrailian ;  a  Spasmodic  Tragedy.     By  T.  PERCY  JONES 

[W.  E.  Aytoun].    Price  50  cents. 

The  Book  of  Ballads.     By  BON  GAULTIEB.  .  1  vol.  12mo, 

cloth.    Price  75  cents. 

Poetical  Works  of  Fitz-Greene  lialleck.     New  and  only 

Complete  Edition,  containing  several  New  Poems,  together  with  many 
now  first  collected.  1  vol.,  12mo.  Price  $1  00. 

Simms'  Poetical  Works.  Poems:  Descriptive,  Drama 
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Portrait  on  steel.  2  vols.,  12mo,  cloth.  Price  $2  50. 

Lyra,  and  other   Poems.      By  ALICE  CAREY.      1   vol., 

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The  Poetical  Works  of  W.  II.  C.  Hosmer.     Now  first 

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Scottish  Songs,  Ballads,  and  Poems.  By  HEW  AINSLIE, 
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The  Poets  and  Poetry  of  Ireland.  1  vol.,  8vo,  with 
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Oliatta,  and  other  Poems.     By  HOWAKD  II,  CALDWELL, 

12rao,  cloth.     Price  $1  00 


2     REDFIELD'S  PUBLICATIONS. — HISTORY  AND  BIOGRAPHY. 


HISTORY  AND  BIOGRAPHY 

Ancient  Egypt  under  the  Pharaohs.     By  JOHN  KENRICK, 

M.  A.     In  2  vols.,  12mo.     Price  $2  50. 

Newman's  Regal   Rome.     An  Introduction   to   Roman 

History.  By  FRANCIS  W.  NEWMAN,  Professor  of  Latin  in  the  University 
College,  London.  12mo,  cloth.  Price  63  cents. 

The  Catacombs  of  Rome,  as  Illustrating  the  Church  of 

the  First  Three  Centuries.  By  the  Right  Rev.  W.  INGRAHAM  KIP,  D.  D.« 
Missionary  Bishop  of  California.  Author  of  "  Christmas  Holidays  in 
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The   History   of    the    Crusades.     By   JOSEPH    FRANCOIS 

MICHAUD.  Translated  by  W.  Robson.  3  vols.,  12mo,  Maps.  Price 
$375. 

Napoleon  in  Exile  ;  or,  a  Voice  from  St.  Helena.     Being 

the  Opinions  and  Reflections  of  Napoleon,  on  the  most  important  Events 
in  his  Life  and  Government,  in  his  own  words.  By  BARRY  E.  O'MEARA, 
his  late  Surgeon ;  with  a  Portrait  of  Napoleon,  after  the  celebrated  picture 
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Jomini's    Campaign    of    Waterloo.     The   Political    and 

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12mo,  cloth.  Price  75  cents. 

Napier's  Peninsular  War.     History  of  the  War  in  the 

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W.  F.  P.  NAPIER,  C.  B.,  Colonel  43d  Regiment,  &c.  Complete  in  1  vol . 
8vo.  Price  $2  50. 

Napier's  Peninsular  War.     History  of  the  War  in  the 

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Discovery  and  Exploration  of  the  Mississippi  Valle^y. 

With  the  Original  Narratives  of  Marquette,  Allouez,  Membre,  Hennepin, 
and  Anastase  Douay.  By  JOHN  GILMARY  SHEA.  With  a  fac-simile  of 
the  Original  Map  of  Marq'uette.  1  vol.,  8vo,  cloth,  antique.  Price  $2. 

Narrative  of  a  Voyage  to  the  Northwest  Coast  of  Ameri 
ca,  in  the  Years  1811-'12-'13  and  1814;  or,  the  First  Settlement  on  the 
Pacific.  By  Gabriel  Franchere.  Translated  and  Edited  by  J.  V.  HUNT- 
INGTON.  12mo,  cloth.  Plates.  Price  $1  00. 

Las  Cases'  Napoleon.     Memoirs  of  the  Life,  Exile,  and 

Conversations  of  the  Emperor  Napoleon.  By  the  Count  LAS  CASE*. 
With  Portraits  on  steel,  woodcuts,  &c.  4  vols.,  12mo,  cloth,  $4  00;  half 
calf  or  morccco  extra,  $8  00. 


REDFIELD'S  PUBLICATIONS. — HISTORY  AND  BIOGRAPHY      3 
Life  of  the  Et.  Hon.  John  Philpot  Curran.     By  his  Son, 

Wm.  Henry  Curran ;  with  Notes  and  Additions,  by  Dr.  R.  SHELTON  MAC 
KENZIE,  and  a  Portrait  on  Steel.     12mo,  cloth.     Place  $1  25. 

Sketches  of  the  Irish  Bar.     By  the  Right  Hon.  Richard 

Lalor  Sheil,  M.  P.     Edited,  with  a  Memoir  and  Notes,  by  Dr.  R.  SHELTON 
MACKENZIE.     Fourth  Edition.     In  2  vols.     Price  $2  00. 

Barrington's  Sketches.  Personal  Sketches  of  his  Own 
Time.  By  SIR  JONAH  BARRINGTON,  Judge  of  the  High  Court  of 
Admiralty  in  Ireland;  with  Illustrations  by  Darley.  Third  Edition. 
12mo,  cloth.  Price  $1  25. 

Moore's  Life  of  Sheridan.  Memoirs  of  the  Life  of  the 
Rt.  Hon.  Richard  Brinsley  Sheridan.  By  THOMAS  MOORE;  with  Por 
trait  after  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds.  2  vols.,  12mo,  cloth.  Price  $2  00. 

Men  of  the  Time,  or  Sketches  of  Living  Notables,  Au 
thors,  Architects,  Artists,  Composers,  Demagogues,  Divines,  Dramatists, 
Engineers,  Journalists,  Ministers,  Monarchs,  Novelists,  Politicians,  Poets, 
Philanthropists,  Preachers,  Savans,  Statesmen,  Travellers,  Voyagers,  War 
riors.  1  vol.,  12mo.  Containing  nearlv  Nine  Hundred  Biographical 
Sketches.  Price  $1  50. 

Lorenzo  Benoni ;  or,  Passages  in  the  Life  of  an  Italian. 

Edited  by  a  Friend.     1  vol.,  12mo.     $1  00. 

The  Workingman's  Way  in  the  World.  Being  the  Au 
tobiography  of  a  Journeyman  Printer.  By  CHARLES  MANBY  SMITH, 
Author  of  "  Curiosities  of  London  Life.*'  12mo,  cloth.  Price  $1  00. 

Classic    and    Historic    Portraits.      By    JAMES    BRUCE. 

12mo,  cloth.     Price  $1  00. 

Ladies  of  the  Covenant.  Memoirs  of  Distinguished 
Scottish  Females,  embracing  the  Period  of  the  Covenant  and  the  Perse 
cution.  By  Rev.  JAMES  ANDERSON.  1  vol.,  12mo.  Price  $1  25. 

Tom  Moore's  Suppressed  Letters.  ISTotes  from  the  Let 
ters  of  Thomas  Moore  to  his  Music-Publisher,  James  Power  (the  publica 
tion  of  which  was  suppressed  in  London),  with  an  Introductory  Letter 
from  Thomas  Crofton  Croker,  Esq.,  F.  S.  A.  With  four  Engravings  on 
steel.  12mo,  cloth.  Price  $1  50. 

Fifty  Years  in  Both  Hemispheres ;  or,  Reminiscences  of 
a  Merchant's  Life.  By  VINCENT  NOLTE.  12mo.  Price  $1  25.  (Eighth 
Edition.) 

Men  and  Women  of  the  Eighteenth  Century.  By 
ARSENE  HOTJSSAYE.  With  beautifully-engraved  Portraits  of  Louis  XV. 
and  Madame  de  Pompadour.  2  vols.,  12mo,  450  pages  each,  extra  super 
fine  paper.  Price  $2  50. 

Philosophers    and    Actresses.      By   ARSENE    HOUSSAYE. 

With  beautifully-engraved  Portraits  of  Voltaire  and  Madame  Parab£re> 
2  vols.,  12mo.    'Price  $2  50. 

Life  of  the  Honorable  William  H.  Seward,  with  Selec 
tions  from  his  Works.  Edited  by  GEORGE.  ]£.  BAKER.  I2rao,  cloth 
Portrait.  Price  $1  00, 


4      REDKIELD'S  PUBLICATIONS. — HISTORY  AND  BIOGRAPHY. 
The  History  of  Texas,  from  its  Settlement  in  1685  to  its 

Annexation  to  the  United  States.  By  H.  YOAKUM,  Esq.,  of  the  Texas 
Bar;  with  Pcrtraits,  Maps,  and  Plans.  2  vols.,  8vo,  cloth  or  sheep. 
Price  $5  00.  [In  Press.] 

The  History  of  Louisiana — Spanish   Domination.      By 

CHARLES  GAYIRRE.     8vo,  cloth.    Price  $2  50. 

The  History  of  Louisiana — French  Domination.  By 
CHARLES  GAYARRE.  2  vols.,  8vo,  cloth.  Price  $3  50. 

The  Life  of  P.  T.  Barnum,  written  by  himself;  in  which 

he  narrates  his  early  history  as  Clerk,  Merchant,  and  Editor,  and  his  later 
career  as  a  Showman.  With  a  Portrait  on  steel,  and  numerous  Illustra 
tions  by  Darley.  1  vol.,  12mo.  Price  $1  25. 

A   Memorial   of    Horatio   Greenough,    consisting   of  a 

Memoir,  Selections  from  his  Writings,  and  Tributes  to  his  Genius,  by 
HENRY  T.  TUCKERMAN,  Author  of  "  Sicily,  a  Pilgrimage,"  "  A  Month 
in  England,"  &c.,  &c.  12mo,  cloth.  Price  75  cents. 

Minnesota  and  its  Resources ;    to  which  are  appended 

Camp-Fire  Sketches,  or  Notes  of  a  Trip  from  St.  Paul  to  Pembina  and 
Selkirk  Settlements  on  the  Red  Eiver  of  the  North.  By  J.  WESLEY  BOND. 
With  a  New  Map  of  the  Territory,  a  View  of  St.  Paul,  and  one  of  the 
Falls  of  St.  Anthony.  I  vol.,  12mo,  cloth.  Price  $1  00. 

The  Private  Life  of  an  Eastern  King.     By  a  Member  of 

the  Household  of  his  Late  Majesty,  Nussir-u-deen,  King  of  Oude.  12mo, 
cloth.  Price  75  cents. 

Doran's  Queens  of  England.  The  Queens  of  England, 
of  ths  House  of  Hanover.  By  Dr.  DORAN,  Author  of  "T.ible  Traits,'' 
"  Hatits  and  Men,"  &c.  2  vols.,  12mo,  cloth.  Price  $2  00 


REDFIE  .D'S    PUBL  J.V1  IONS. — BELLES-LETTRES. 


BELLES-LETTEES. 

Revolutionary  Tales,  by  WM.  GILMORE  SIMMS,  Esq.    New  and  R«- 
vised  Editions,  with  Illustrations  by  Darley. 

The  Partisan  ;    A  Romance  of  the  Revolution.     12mo, 

cloth.     Price  $1  25. 

Mellichampe  ;   A  Legend  of  the  Santee.     12mo,  cloth. 

Price  $1  25. 

Katharine  "Walton  ;  or,  The  Rebel  of  Dorchester.     12mo, 

cloth.     Price  $1  25. 

The    Scout;    or,  The   Black   Riders   of    the   Congaree. 

12mo,  cloth.     Price  $1  25. 

"Woodcraft  ;  or,  The  Hawks  about  the  Dovecote.    12mo, 

cloth.     Price  $1  25. 


The  Forayers  ;  or,  The  Raid  of  the  Dog-Days.     A 

Revolutionary  Romance.     12mo,  cloth.    Price  $1  25. 

Eutaw.     A  New  Revolutionary  Romance.     12mo,  cloth. 

Price  $1  25.     [In  Press.] 

Siinms's  Border  Romances  Of  the  South,  New  and  Revised  Editions, 
with  Illustrations  by  Darley.  Uniform  with  SIMMS'S  REVOLUTIONARI 
TALES. 

I.  Guy   Rivers.      A  Tale   of    Georgia.      12mo,    cloth. 

Price  $1  25. 

II.  Richard  Hurdis.     A  Tale  of  Alabama.     12mo,  cloth. 

Price  $1  25. 

III.  Border  Beagles.    A  Tale  of  Mississippi.    12mo,  cloth. 

Price  $1  25. 

IY.  Charlemont.      A  Tale  of  Kentucky.     12mo,  cloth. 

Price  $1  25.     [In  Press.] 

V.  Beauchampe;    or,  The  Kentucky  Tragedy.      12mo, 

cloth.    Price  $1  25.    [In  Press.] 

VI.  Confession;    or,  The   Blind   Heart.      12mc,  clcth. 

Price  $1  25.     [In  Press.] 

The  Yemassee  ;    A  Romance  of   South    Carolina.     By 

WM.  GILMORE  SIMMS,  Esq.     12mo,  cloth.    Price  $1  25. 

Southward,  Ho  !    a  Spell  of  Sunshine.      By  WM.  GIL* 

MORE  SIMMS,  Esq.     12mo,  cloth.     Price  $1  25. 


8  REDFIELD'S  PUBLICATIONS.— BELLES-LETTRES. 

The  Noctes  Ambrosianse.     By  Professor  WILSON,  J.  G. 

LOCKHART,  JAMES  HOGG,  and  Dr.  MAGINN.  Edited,  with  Memoirs  and 
Noter,  oy  Dr.  R.  SHELTON  MACKENZIE.  In  5  volumes.  Price  $5  00. 

The  Odoherty  Papers;  forming  the  first  portion  of  the 

Miscellaneous  Writings  of  the  late  Dr.  MAGINN.  With  an  Original 
Memoir,  and  copious  Notes,  by  Dr.  R.  SHELTON  MACKENZIE.  2  vols. 
Price  $2  00. 

The    Shakespeare    Papers,  and   the    Homeric   Ballads; 

forming  Vol.  III.  of  the  Miscellaneous  Writings  of  the  late  Dr.  MAGINN. 
Edited  by  Dr.  R.  SHELTON  MACKENZIE.  [In  Press.] 

Bits    of   Blarney.      By   Dr.    R.    SHELTON    MACKENZIE, 

Editor  of  "  Sheil's  Sketches  of  the  Irish  Bar,"  "Noctes  Ambrosianae," 
&c.  12mo,  cloth.  Price  $1  00. 

Table  Traits.     By  Dr.  DOKAN,  Author  of  "  Habits  and 

Men,"  &c.     12mo,  cloth.     $1  25. 

Habits  and   Men.     By  Dr.  DORAN,  Author  of  "Table 

Traits,"  "  The  Queens  of  England  under  the  House  of  Hanover."  12mo, 
Price  $1  00. 

Calavar ;  The  Knight  of  the  Conquest.     A  Romance  of 

Mexico.  By  the  late  Dr.  ROBERT  MONTGOMERY  BIRD,  Author  of 
"  Nick  of  the  Woods ;"  with  Illustrations  by  Darley.  12mo.  cloth.  Price 
$1  25. 

Nick  of  the  Woods,  or  the  Jibbenainosay.     A  Tale  of 

Kentucky.  By  the  late  Dr.  ROBERT  MONTGOMERY  BIRD,  Author  of 
"  Calavar,"  "  The  Infidel,"  &c.  New  and  Revised  Edition,  with  Illustra 
tions  by  Darley.  12mo,  cloth.  Price  $1  25. 

The  Pretty  Plate  ;  A  New  and  Beautiful  Juvenile.     By 

JOHN  VINCENT.  Illustrated  by  Darley.  1  vol.,  16mo,  cloth,  gilt.  Price 
50  cents ;  extra  gilt  edges,  75  cents. 

Vasconselos.      A   Romance   of    the    New   World.     By 

FRANK  COOPER.     12mo,  cloth.     Price  $1  25. 

A  Stray  Yankee  in  Texas.     By  PHILIP  PAXTON.     With 

Illustrations  by  Darley.     Second  Edition.     12mo,  cloth.     Price  $1  25. 

The  Wonderful  Adventures  of  Capt.  Priest.     By  PHILIP 
PAXTON.     With  Illustrations  by  Darley.     12mo,  cloth.     Price  $1  00. 

Western  Characters ;  being  Types  of  Border  Life  in  the 

Western  States.  By  J.  L.  M'CONNEL,  Author  of  "  Talbot  and  Vernon," 
"  The  Glenns,"  &c.,  &c  With  Six  Illustrations  by  Darley.  12mo,  cloth. 
Price  $1  25. 

The  Master-Builder ;  or,  Life  at  a  Trade.     By  DAY  KEL 
LOGG  LEE.     1  vol.,  12mo.    Price  $1  00. 

Merrimack  ;   or,  Life  at  the  Loom.     By  DAY  KELLOGG 

LEK.     1  vol.,  12mo.     Price  $1  00 


REDFIELD'S  PUBLICATIONS. — BELLES-LETTRES.  9 

The  Works  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe.  Complete  in  three  vol 
umes.  With  a  Portrait  a  Memoir  by  James  Russell  Lowell ;  and  an 
Introductory  Essay  by  N  P.  Willis.  Edited  by  RUFUS  W.  GRISWOLD 
12mo.  Price  $3  50. 

The  Cavaliers  of  England  ;  or,  The  Times  of  the  Revolu 
tions  of  1642  and  1688.  By  HENRY  WILLIAM  HERBERT.  1  vol.,  12mo, 
Price  $1  25. 

Knights  of  England,  France,  and  Scotland.     By  HENRY 

WILLIAM  HERBERT.     1  vol.,  12mo.    Price  $1  25. 

The   Chevaliers   of  France,  from  the  Crusaders  to  the 

Mareschals  of  Louis  XIV.  By  HENRY  WILLIAM  HERBERT.  Author 
of  "  The  Cavaliers  of  England,"  "  Cromwell,"  "  The  Brothers,"  &c.,  &c. 
1  vol.,  12mo.  Price  $1  25. 

Marmaduke  "Wyvil;    An  Historical  Romance  of  1651. 

By  HENRY  WILLIAM  HERBERT,  Author  of  "  The  Cavaliers  of  England," 
&c.,  &c.  Fourteenth  Edition.  Revised  and  Corrected.  Price  $1  25. 

The  Forest.     By  J.  Y.  HUNTINGTON,  Author  of  "Lady 

Alice,"  "  Alban,"  &c.     1  vol.,  12mo.     Second  Edition.    Price  $1  25. 
Alban  ;    or,  The  History  of  a  Young  Puritan.     By  J. 

V.  HUNTINGTON.     2  vols.,  12mo,  cloth.     Price  $2  00. 

Isa:    a  Pilgrimage.     By    CAROLINE   CHESEBKO'.     1  vol., 

12mo,  cloth.   .Price  $1  00. 

The  Children  of  Light.     By  CAROLINE  CHESEBRO',  Author 

of  "Isa,  a  Pilgrimage,"  "Dream-Land  by  Daylight,"  &cv  &c.  12mo, 
cloth.  Price  $1  00. 

Dream-Land  by  Daylight:    A  Panorama  of  Romance. 

By  CAROLINE  CHESEBRO'.     Illustrated  by  Darley.     1  vol.,  12mo.    Price 

$1  25. 

Clovernook ;  or,  Recollections  of  Our  Neighborhood  in 
the  West.  By  ALICE  CAREY.  Illustrated  by  Darley.  First  and  Second 
Series.  Fourth  Edition.  2  vols.  12mo.  Price  $2  00. 

Hagar ;  A  Story  of  To-Day.     By  ALICE  CAREY,  Author 

of  "  Clovernook,"  "Lyra,  and  Other  Poems,"  &c.     1  vol.,  12mo.    Price 

$1  00. 

Cap-Sheaf,  a  Fresh  Bundle.     By  LEWIS  MYRTLE.     1  vol., 

12mo,  cloth.     Price  $1  00. 

The   Youth   of  Jefferson ;    or,  A  Chronicle  of  College 

Scrapes  at  Williamsburg,  Va.,  1764.     Cloth.    Price  75  cents. 

Tales  and  Traditions  of  Hungary.  By  THERESA  PULSZKY. 
With  a  Portrait  of  the  Author.  1  vol.  Price  $1  25. 

The  Lion  Skin  and  the  Lover  Hunt.     By  CHARLES  DB 

BERNARD.     12mo.    Price  $1  00. 

Easy  Warren  and  his  Cotemporaries :  Sketched  for 
Home  Circles  Bv  WILLIAM  TURNER  COGGESHALL.  Price  $1  00. 


10  REDFIELD'S  PUBLICATIONS. — BELLRS-LETTRES. 

You  Have  heard  of  Them  :  being  Sketches  of  Statesmen 

and  Politicians,  Painters,  Composers,  Instrumentalists  and  Vocalists,  Au 
thors  and  Authoresses.  By  Q.  With  Portraits  on  Steel  of  Horace  Ver- 
net  and  Julia  Grisi.  12mo,  cloth.  Price  $1  00. 

Satire  and  Satirists.     By  JAMKS  HANNAY.     12mo,  cloth. 

Price  75  cents. 

Full  Proof  of  the  Ministry.     By  the  Rev.  JOHN  1ST.  JSToR- 

TON.      12mo,  cloth.     Price  75  cents. 

Dickens' S  Little  Folks,  in  a  Series  of  18mo  Volumes,  with  Illustrations, 
Neatly  Bound  in  Cloth.     Price  38  cents. 

1.  Little  Nell.  4.  Florence  Dombey. 

2.  Oliver  and  the  Jew  Fagin.       5.  Sraike. 

3.  Little  Paul.  6.  The  Child  Wife. 

This  is  a  series  of  volumes  which  has  been  undertaken  with  a  view  to  supply 
the  want  of  a  class  of  books  for  children,  of  a  vigorous,  manly  tone,  combined 
with  a  plain  and  concise  mode  of  narration.  The  writings  of  Charles  Dickens 
have  been  selected  as  the  basis  of  the  scheme,  on  account  of  the  well-known 
excellence  of  his  portrayal  of  children,  and  the  interests  connected  with  chil 
dren — qualities  which  have  given  his  volumes  their  strongest  hold  on  the 
hearts  of  parents.  With  this  view  the  career  of  LITTLE  NELL  and  her 
GRANDFATHER,  OLIVER,  LITTLE  PAUL,  FLORENCE  DOMBEY,  SMIKE,  and 
the  CHILD- WIFE,  have  been  detached  from  the  large  mass  of  matter  with 
which  they  were  originally  connected,  and  presented,  in  the  author's  own  lan 
guage,  to  a  new  class  of  readers,  to  whom  the  little  volume  will,  we  doubt 
not,  be  as  attractive  as  the  larger  originals  have  so  long  proved  to  the  general 
public. 


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